


Line and Column

by auberus, lferion



Series: Lavender House [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Consent, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Historical, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, New Year's Resolutions 2014, POV Alternating, Yuletide New Year's Resolutions Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of preparing for war, Lord John Grey and Matthew of Salisbury make an unexpected connection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Line and Column

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Diana Williams (dkwilliams)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/gifts).



> This is part of the Lavender House universe, wherein I postulate that John is an Immortal, his First Death being during the voyage to Jamaica when most of the ship succumbs to illness. (It would explain so much.... He doesn't realize that's what has happened, not for quite a while. At some point I do plan to write that.) 
> 
> Set during the Napoleonic Wars, shortly before Waterloo. We did research, but not extensively. Any errors most definitely our own. 
> 
> Thanks go to Morgynleri, Athena, Jay and others for encouragement and cheerleading. This has been in process for a while, and all the encouragement has helped.

There were times when Matthew couldn't help feeling that his current life was more dishonest than usual.  As a member of the Duke of Wellington's staff, he was using knowledge of tactics and strategy he'd accumulated over hundreds of lifetimes, but his youthful face had resulted in his being considered a prodigy, a bright and rising star in an army that had a plentiful supply of brilliant young officers.  Usually, that sort of deception didn't bother him.  He'd made his peace with the necessity of it the first time someone had jokingly remarked that his unchanging appearance had to be the result of witchcraft.  In those days, that had been a dangerous joke to have made about one, especially if there was actually something to hide.  This time, however, he was aware of a constant, nagging sense of guilt that he'd traced back to the deep respect and admiration he felt for Arthur Wellesley.  He couldn't help wishing that he could offer the full wealth of his experience, honestly and openly; could allow himself to be used as effectively as possible.  It was a dangerous temptation, and one he tried his best to ignore.  It was difficult to remember, sometimes, that he was a rather junior officer, despite his recent promotion to Major, and he was rapidly gaining a reputation for being abrupt with his superiors that Wellington thought was amusing only because Matthew hasn't been abrupt with _him_. 

Picking up the necessary papers from the desk he'd been borrowing a corner of, he started down the hall towards the Duke's office, pausing a few steps before reaching the door as the feel of someone else's Presence washed over him.  He was not concerned that there would be a challenge — there was a general, though unofficial, truce between Immortals on the Allied side that had thus far been adhered to without exception.  His concern was that the waiting Immortal would recognize him, and betray him with a casual comment that didn't match the detailed background he had been forced to construct in order to satisfy Wellington's curiosity.  Apprehension or not, however, his duty lay behind the door in front of him, so he crossed the last few steps and knocked.

It was opened almost immediately by Wellington's adjutant, a captain who excelled at the job that had been Matthew's until his promotion.  He and Matthew exchanged amiable nods; then the captain turned back to the desk at the center of the room, and the man behind it.

"Major Everly, sir," he said, while Matthew stood at attention beside him. 

"Very good," Wellington said.  "Well, Everly?  Take a seat, my boy.  Captain Vickers, you're dismissed."

Vickers exited discreetly, closing the door behind him, while Matthew took one of the chairs in front of the desk, and looked over at the Immortal sitting in the other.  He was no one Matthew had met before, which was a relief.  It was the only thing about the man that was.  Otherwise, Matthew found him ... troubling, for no reason that he could clearly articulate, even in his own mind.  He was several years older than Matthew himself, at least physically, and everything about him, from the sharp gleam of intelligence in his eyes to the elegant cut of his uniform and the way he wore it, spoke of self-assurance, of confidence and self-control.  There was something oddly compelling about him, something that drew not only the eye but the interest as well, and Matthew was disturbed by the strength of his own reaction.  He was relieved when Wellington spoke, giving him a reason to look away.

"You don't know the Major, do you?" he asked the other Immortal, then continued without waiting for a reply.  "Major Matthew Everly, Lord Salisbury.  He's one of my wunderkinds.  Everly, this is Lt Colonel the Honorable John FitzHugh Grey, a connexion of the Duke of Pardloe, don't you know."

"A pleasure," Matthew murmured politely, offering his hand.

John Grey took his hand unhesitatingly, firm but not challenging. There was an almost-familiarity about Matthew, Lord Salisbury, something Hugh once told him, that would come to him in a moment. “Indeed,” John said, taking his hand back, feeling the spark that had flared at the contact continue to burn in his palm. Tall and generously made, wide shoulders setting off his uniform (good tailoring: have Garnett discover the snyder) and an unforced, erect posture. Nothing like as young as he looked. Ah. Matthew _of_ Salisbury, Corwin’s teacher, friend to Hugh, one of the reliably good men. Hugh of course had said nothing about his beauty as John would see it. John was glad he was sitting, and that the cut of his uniform trousers, while painfully snug, would not display his interest. “Wellington has good things to say of you.” 

Grey's handshake, brief though it was, sent a tingling flush of heat through Matthew.  He caught his breath and closed his hand over the warmth still lingering there, grateful for Grey's compliment largely because the pleasure he could be expected to feel at receiving it gave him a way to cover his unexpected reaction to Grey himself.  He was no stranger to the attractions other men could hold, but this sharp, sudden hunger, this _craving_ , was a new thing entirely.

"Thank you," he said, ducking his head slightly, knowing himself to be slightly flushed.  "Your reputation precedes you, also, Colonel." Knowing that the man was Immortal added a new depth to the things he'd heard.

"And that settles the formalities," Wellington said briskly.  "Everly, let me see those papers I asked for."

John turned his attention back to the business at hand, telling his parts sternly to subside. That Everly was immortal explained much of Wellington’s enthusiasm; what he had to say would be more informed than it might otherwise be. The faint, betraying flush, barely coloring his cheekbones said something else — that he was _interested_ , whether he knew it or not. Told John that the spark still tingling in his palm was likely mutual, not one-sided. But now was emphatically not the time for personal considerations. Opportunity would arise - would be made to arise if necessary — later.

* * *

The strategy session went very well, formality put aside as three keen and experienced military minds wrestled with the problems presented by the recent information from the scouts and intelligencers, the possible areas for skirmish, ambush or pitched battle, the forces available to Wellington, the forces opposed, known and guessed at, even the weather. When Wellington brought the meeting to a close, it was with the fierce expression of a commander well pleased with the progress made and hopeful of the prospect before him. 

"Gentlemen," Wellington stood, and both Matthew and John rose reflexively, "I thank you for your thoughts. Vickers will take over from here with the necessary paperwork." He shifted his shoulders, stretching out the tension of poring over maps and diagrams. The light from the window was going gold as the sun sank toward sunset.

John gathered his tablets from the table, tucking the pencil into the loop and returning them to his pocket as Matthew straightened the facings of his coat, settling the cloth to smoothness over his excellent form. 

"Enjoy your evening, gentlemen," Wellington said, returning their half-bows with a nod of his own. "You'll be busy soon enough."

Once in the hall, it seemed a mutual decision to continue together, discussing the relative virtues of Prussian cavalry and their own while they waited for their coats. The conversation carried them outside into the cool of late afternoon. 

"Shall we dine?" Matthew suggested, still not entirely certain where this acquaintance was going, but wanting to pursue it. 

John smiled at him, thoughts running in the same vein, "Certainly. Have you a preferred establishment?"

Matthew did, and they bent their steps hence, shoulders unconsciously, companionably close.

* * *

By the time they had finished dining, Matthew was wound as tightly as he'd ever been, every nerve in his body achingly, hungrily aware of Grey.  The conversation had been innocent enough, but the other signs, glances, the not entirely innocent hand on an elbow, brush of knee under the narrow table….

"Shall we continue this in private?" Grey was asking, looking up at Matthew through his lashes in a way that hinted at all kind of promises.  Matthew had to take a breath before he could answer, and there was a hint of roughness to his voice despite his impassively pleasant expression.

"I believe so, Colonel; thank you."

John heard the catch in Salisbury’s breath, the deeper note. Felt it in his parts as quick acquaintance very rarely stirred him (and he would not think on any of those, all now well beyond any kind of reach). With practiced lightness — he had been molly far longer than immortal, the rules of concealment-in-plain-sight applied to both, as James had taught him all those years ago — he said, “Please, ‘John’ or ‘Grey’, not ‘Colonel’.” He stood and signaled to the waiter to put both meals on his tally. It was something else they could fence over, the privilege of one rank over the other, a pleasant exercise of wit. He gathered pocket-book and pencil from the table and returned them to his pocket before smiling at Salisbury. “Especially if we are to be … considering close acquaintance.” He meant several readings of that statement, and knew Salisbury’s perception and understanding to be more than equal to right interpretation.

"John it is, then," Matthew said. He liked the way the man's given name felt on his tongue. "On the condition that you call me Matthew."  He was blushing again, though faintly, and he ducked his head, smiling at John. "I almost never use my title any longer, and never with my friends."

“Matthew.” John said, with a little acknowledging tilt of the head. He felt a rush of energy, not just the undeniable physical attraction and carnal interest, but also the thrill of a matching intellect, a mind as interesting and endowed as the body. Not since James had there been anyone so thoroughly engaging. (Jamie … did not entirely count, having never been remotely available, and even friendship constrained by so many things, Claire not the least of them.) “I am acquainted with the potential awkwardness of a title, yes.” John smiled back, the real smile that lit his eyes.

"While I had, until recently, almost forgotten it," Matthew said, smiling ruefully.  Hearing his name on John's lips had taken a slow-simmering arousal and turned it into a conflagration that was as startling as it was all-consuming.  He was glad to be sitting down, and for the punishingly tight cut of his breeches, both of which helped to conceal his reaction from the world at large.  He was not unfamiliar with being attracted to other men, but he had never felt such an attraction so strongly; never wanted another man with such fierce hunger.  Something about John's expression said that he was only too well aware of the effect he was having on Matthew.

John nodded at that, somehow aware that even if Matthew had put aside his title, his overt lordship, he had never entirely laid down the understanding of obligation that went with it. As John doubted he himself would ever entirely. Another point in common, then. He recognized with a different part of his awareness that Matthew was still sitting, likely because movement would be potentially revealing, or uncomfortable, or both. There was almost an element of uncertainty mixed in with the arousal John could see simmering in Matthew’s eyes, as if perhaps there was something new or unusual about what he was feeling. (It was true that Hugh had not mentioned anything as to Salisbury’s preferences for intimate company, which in Hugh-speak meant that women were more the usual — flexible rather than molly, then. But undeniably interested.) Best not to rush, in that case. Let things develop on their own. Much as he would like carnal acquaintance (his member twitched against his thigh, unable to rise in the tight constraint of his own nether-garments) friendship would be more valuable over the long haul, and John intended his span to be as long as he could make it. Of course, both would be even better. 

“Shall we away? I have a wine I think you will enjoy.” John made a little production of examining his cuffs for crumbs, taking his great-coat from the solicitous waiter and shrugging into it, letting Matthew rise and collect himself unobserved. If their bodies were this aware of each other, it would be hard indeed _not_ to come together. But friendship first.

"I'd like that," Matthew said, wishing he could stop blushing.  He collected his own coat and followed John outside, grateful for the cool air on his face, and the relative darkness of the street.  His heart was beating over-fast, and his stomach fluttering with anticipation.  All his other encounters of this nature had been matters of mutual relief, one friend to another while on campaign, conducted furtively and hurriedly. This deliberate invitation, the arousal that had been building slowly all evening, were something new, and though it was not unwelcome, it did make him wonder to discover something of this nature about himself after nearly seven centuries.

It was impolite to ask another Immortal's age, but everyone asked about mutual acquaintances.  It was a safe topic, and a good way to size someone up.

"I wonder," Matthew said, once they had gone a little way, "have you ever met the de Valicourts?"  He would ask if John had ever met Cory, but Cory didn't always endear himself to other Immortals.

John had been casting about for just such a question. He hadn’t expected quite that one, however. “I have yet to have the pleasure of Madame de Valicourt’s company. The baron I have met.” John could not keep the glint of amusement and satisfaction from his voice. “After the first time, he chose to make port elsewhere than Jamaica for the term I was there, though I assured him his Letter of Marque was in order.” 

"He tends to avoid me as well, when I'm an officer of the law." Matthew chuckled softly.  "I captured his ship once, but as a general policy, I do what I can to keep our kind out of prison.  He still brings up his lost cargo, however."  He glanced sideways at John, enjoying the man's finely drawn features, the curve of his mouth. "You'd like his wife.  Gina is a remarkable woman. She reminds me of my own teacher, though outwardly they couldn't be more different."

“So Hugh has said. He told me once he actually offered for her, which is saying something. I’m sure there is more to the story than he related, likely not entirely to his credit.” John’s voice was fond. It was remarkably comfortable, walking like this, arousal simmering gently through him, with one he need not have any pretense with, as a man or an immortal. He had believed Hugh when his teacher had said that immortal friendships - of whatever degree of intimacy - were worth pursuing, but he had a better understanding of why now. (Hugh was his teacher, and would always be a friend; James he had known and loved while still mortal, also considered a teacher though his was not a name John gave out as such, and certainly hoped they would remain intimate, but this that was growing with Matthew had no history, no expectation or anything else.) “Madame Gina must be both remarkable and formidable. Your teacher was — is? — a woman?” 

"She is. And let me tell you, for a man of my era and position to be told by a woman that she needed to teach me to use a sword properly.…" Matthew laughed and shook his head.  "I was considered one of the best swordsmen in the country, and Ceirdwyn bested me easily. It was an unpleasant shock, to say the least. But you know Fitz?" That in itself spoke well for John. "He's a good man."

“He is. And he took it in very good sport when I told him I would be delighted to learn anything he chose to teach me, with the exception of the art of wenching.” They had reached the corner of the street his rooms were in, and allowed himself the liberty of taking Matthew’s arm as they turned. Again that pleasant spark jolted through him, deep and warm. He let the tiniest shiver of arousal and anticipation to escape his control. “I still wonder occasionally how it was that James persuaded him to take me on, but I am very glad he did.”

John's touch sent a fresh rush of heat through Matthew, sharpened the already insistent demands of his body. "Have women never interested you, then?" he asked, embarrassed anew by the tremor in his voice.

“Not that way, no.” This close, John could feel the unevenness of Matthew’s breath, had noted the quick tremble of his arm under John’s own. “I have known women I liked very well to converse with, who were very good company, but no. I gather the enjoyment of both is more the usual for … our kind.” How odd, John thought briefly, for that phrase to mean their shared immortality, and not inclination. “Even Hugh has an appreciation for male beauty, once it is pointed out to him.” 

The good-sized residence that housed a number of the officers was in view. John kept his voice light, undemanding, though he very much wanted — needed — to know the answer to what he was about to ask. Or rather, how Matthew would choose to answer it. “And yourself?”

"In the general run of things, I tend more towards women," Matthew admitted, catching the faint note of — not strain, but importance in the question.  "I've even been married, on more than one occasion, though I'm not so single-minded in my pursuits as Fitz can be.  I've spent a large portion of my life on campaign, and learned that pleasure can be found with both men and women."

John nodded. “My own marriage was a matter entirely of practicality, though I believe Isobel was not unhappy. I would have understood her taking a lover, but she set a very high store on fidelity, and her own feelings were not over-warm. Had she her own child, things might have been different.” John was surprised at himself — that was not a thing he had ever spoken of to anyone before. To cover his confusion (as well as to push all of those memories back to the further recesses of his mind where they belonged) he addressed himself to the business of opening the door and ushering Matthew into the hall.

"The lack of a child can be hard on a woman.  It was for my first wife.  Of course, at that point, we were both worried about the lack of an heir."  It had been that lack which had led to Matthew's own first death, due to the machinations of an overly ambitious cousin. Not that the man had lived long enough to enjoy his ill-won title for more than a few days.

“She — we — had William, of course, but for her I think it was not the same.” Another thing they had in common, then. John glanced up at Matthew’s face as he led them down the passage to the apartment he had been given, conveniently in a corner of the gracious building. Someone’s grand town-house, lent all found for the duration; the walls were sturdy, inside and out. If John’s quarters had been any less private he would not be contemplating what he was wanting even more with the intrusion of unwelcome memory. He had been fond of Isobel, had certainly cared for her and tried to do right by her, but the kind of love and faith she had deserved had not been his to give. From the tone of Matthew’s voice, and the distant look in his eye, his had been a truer marriage on that head. 

John fumbled in his pocket for the key, once more attempting to shake off the memory of cool and studied courtesy, perfectly coiffed hair, perfectly gowned form, perfectly, properly downcast eyes and demure disinterest in whatever he might do outside her narrow, proper world. “She was a very proper wife. I tried to be a proper husband.” Now what he wanted was to be very improper indeed, free of all that propriety and constraint. Free of the past.

John opened the door to his rooms, grateful to be inside. Garnett had the fire going, and was just coming into the sitting room. “Garnett, port for Major Everly, please, and you may have the evening to yourself after we are settled. I shall put myself to bed.” 

Matthew has never really developed a taste for port, but he took the glass anyway, nodding his thanks.  Once John's man had left, he put the glass down on the nearest table, stepping closer to John. "I apologize if I brought up unwelcome memories," he said softly, putting a hand on John's arm and trying to ignore the rush of heat even such innocent contact sent through his veins.

John looked up at the touch, smiling a little ruefully. “I apologize for being poor company.” Why did it feel as though he could tell this man anything, and have it be heard without judgement until the whole was said? And even with the serious bent his thoughts had taken, his body had never lost interest. Matthew’s touch, his nearness, sped John’s blood anew. He put his own glass aside, and with them, finally, the remnants of the past; as if Matthew’s attention and touch had been the final ward to make them flee. 

John turned fully toward Matthew, his hands reaching for the safe territory of Matthew’s forearms (nicely muscled under the good cloth of his coat, the coat he wanted to peel slowly off of those magnificent shoulders, but he was getting ahead of himself again) that they not stray to waist or chest or hip. Matthew’s hands turned to cup John’s elbows almost involuntarily, and John could feel the catch in Matthew’s breath in his own throat. “I would like to make it up to you,” John said, meeting his eyes, “by being very improper indeed.”

Matthew swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, his heart speeding in his chest. "I've found you anything but poor company," he said, " but I'd welcome the impropriety for its own sake."

John felt his face break into a wide and unabashedly lustful smile, even as his nether parts seemed to be trying to climb out of his clothes by sheer pneumatic pressure. He moved right into Matthew’s space, close enough to feel the heat of him through the cloth, and let one hand shift to the top button of Matthew’s waistcoat, burrowing under the fall of muslin of his cravat, fingers seeking the opening of his shirt and the warm skin beneath. His other hand moved up to cup the back of Matthew’s skull, fingers threading through thick, soft hair. Oh, he _wanted_ this man. Wanted to strip him slowly, touch and explore and ignite all the spots John liked best to be touched himself. He wanted to bury himself deep in all Matthew’s secret places and teach him the glory of it; apply all the lessons John had learned over the years of giving and taking and the ecstasy two bodies could make together, when one knew what the other’s responses could be. 

“I trust no one is expecting you before morning,” John murmured, before drawing him down to an open-mouthed and entirely unchaste kiss. 

That first touch of John's mouth sent an unprecedented flood of desire through Matthew. His hands came up on their own accord, one cradling the side of John's face, the other sliding around his back, pulling him closer. This was nothing like the mutual release he'd sought with other men, or even the passion he'd felt for the women in his life. This was strength meeting strength, and for once he was the novice. A faint flutter of nerves that he was determined not to let show mingled with the hunger rising in him.

Matthew’s mouth opened hungrily to his, and John let his tongue enter and explore, delicate and insistent ravishment. Matthew’s hands were warm on his face, the small of his back; John happily moved closer with the pressure there, feeling the jump of Matthew’s prick as their thighs met, the almost imperceptible tremble of Matthew’s belly against his own. This was new to him, John thought, this fire, this all-over desire. It was a gift to John as well - to share this intimacy, this joy, this knowledge entirely unsullied by shame; no furtive fumbling or embarrassed denial of the desire now allowed to build between them. Matthew would not refuse to look John in the eye tomorrow, whatever happened tonight. 

Not since James had John been with one so liberatingly free of constraint, of shame. He had hardly known what he had in James’ unreserved enjoyment of the physical, the wet, messy, gleeful pleasures as well as the tender and subtle, but John had committed every moment to memory and taught himself to reach for that freedom himself. And now he could give back that delight, invite Matthew to discover in himself what he might find of ecstasy in this new thing. John let his hips rock against Matthew’s thighs, his length hard and hot through the cloth, Matthew’s growing harder against John’s belly. He found Matthew’s waistcoat buttons and undid them one by one, then let his hand spread wide over Matthew’s breastbone, palm to skin, feeling his heart pounding as they kissed.

The warmth of John's hand on his chest spurred Matthew to undo some buttons of his own.  He found that he wanted to see John without the barrier of his uniform, to take his time, to have more than the hurried search for mutual satisfaction that he was used to from these encounters.

John smiled to feel Matthew’s fingers fumbling at his own buttons, and he let his hand slide up to Matthew’s neckcloth, deftly loosening the elegantly plain knot. He eased back a little on the kiss, now exploring the strong line of Matthew’s jaw with his lips, feeling Matthew’s hot, ragged breath as a caress across his cheek. _Oh, I shall make you feel such things…_ John thought but did not, yet, say. Truly this was not going to be a quick fumble, but a slow and thorough night of exploration and delight. 

A ragged groan escaped Matthew's lips, his head tipping back involuntarily as he gave himself over to this, whatever it might turn out to be, wherever it might lead.  He worked John's coat open, pushed it back off his shoulders, enjoying the play of muscle beneath his hands for a moment before turning his attention to John's neckcloth.  It came undone easily, and, trying to cover a flutter of nerves, Matthew started on the rest of the buttons of John's waistcoat.

"This is something new for me," he admitted between kisses pressed to the curve of John's throat.  "New, and welcome.  I've had a soldier's encounters, but nothing more."  Nothing like this moment of shared heat and mutual hunger, already as sensuous as anything he'd had with a woman, easily as intense, both different and the same, in ways that these things had never been before.  The faint scrape of John's stubble against his skin, the callused touch of his hands, the strength in the body pressed against his, were dizzyingly arousing, overwhelming.

John shuddered as Matthew’s lips moved against his neck, understanding the intimacy of it in a way that he had not before, and it heightened his own delight that he was learning something in this coming together as well. His determination to make this as good as possible for Matthew only increased with Matthew’s admission, and the sense of trust and tenderness his words invoked John felt as a squeeze of his heart, and a fan of the flames of desire. It was a rare man indeed who would own inexperience. “I want you to tell me if there is aught uncomfortable.” John said, freeing Matthew’s shoulders from his coat, coaxing one arm and then the other from the sleeves. Where Matthew’s hands had been tingled warm in their short absence. “Nothing you do not want will happen.” 

Matthew had said those words or something like them to women on more than one occasion.  Hearing them now startled a breath of laughter out of him, even though he knew how sincerely John meant them.

"I put myself entirely in your hands," he said, adding emphasis to the words by punctuating them with a kiss that quickly became serious, incandescent with the desire between them.  He meant every syllable, he realized, almost surprised at that, and at the direction his thoughts were taking.  If he permitted it, if John wanted to, John's earlier words might prove to have been not so incongruous after all.  Matthew had never allowed himself to be taken, had never even considered it, but he was now, and the flash of heat that ran through him at the thought was as sudden and devastating as a lightning-strike. He couldn't help the catch in his breath, or the forward roll of his hips.  He was as hard as he'd ever been in his life, nearly trembling with the strength of it, and wondering how he could not have known this about himself.

John smiled at Matthew’s quick laugh, recognizing the relative incongruity of what he had said, but John truly wanted no discomfort or unwillingness between them. He knew what he wanted, what he had wanted almost since laying eyes on the man, and John knew as well that what Matthew meant by ‘soldier’s encounters’ was not at all what his own first encounter with a soldier had been. This was a chance to make something beautiful between them, the very antithesis of that piece of violence. An unexpected pulse in his arse surprised him. Perhaps, if the fates were kind, on another occasion he would be able to give Matthew that opportunity as well - James (and Percy) had taught John he _could_ enjoy being taken, though in general he preferred the other role. He could feel Matthew’s interest hard against his thigh, the little shivers just under the skin, the tiny catch in his breath. John opened to Matthew’s kiss, and sent his hands exploring under Matthew’s good linen shirt, mapping the strong muscles of his back, tugging his shirt-tails from the waist of his pantaloons, letting his fingers rest just where Matthew’s spine began to dip toward his buttocks. 

“I want you,” John said, low-voiced, his own prick damping his small-clothes. “Will you let me give you that?”

Another lightning-flash of desire shook Matthew to his bones at John's words, the tone as much as the words themselves shivering along his spine.  They left a rush of new hunger behind, left Matthew wanting something he was not sure he could name.

"Anything," he said again, and again meant it entirely.  He was being wound tighter and tighter by want, and enjoying every moment of it.

“Oh, I shall make you feel _such_ things,” John breathed, nearly overcome at Matthew’s generosity and trust. He swallowed, telling his parts to have patience. “But first, I want to _see_ you.” He brought his hands around to Matthew’s flies, tracing the sweet line of his waist, feeling him tremble. John paused there, the backs of his fingers still and warm against Matthew’s belly, and met Matthew’s heavy-lidded gaze with a serious look. “And you will tell me, if there is any hurt, or anything you discover you don’t like.” There was the barest hint of authority in his voice, the note that had commanded men, but that was just the stiffening to a genuine concern, and audible arousal.

 _What I tell you three times is true_ John thought, feeling the jump of Matthew’s pulse against his thigh, the increasing flutter of his belly against his fingers. Matthew’s hand was warm against his skin, and he had forgotten how much he liked the intimacy of fingertips light against his scalp. The kiss was more than a promise. Their tongues tangled and danced against each other, and for all of Matthew’s height, he had the trick of meeting his partner in this without awkwardness or looming; a minor point but one John appreciated. He let his fingers move slowly to Matthew’s fly-buttons, slipping each one from its slot, warm linen brushing his wrist as Matthew’s length sprang free of its sartorial confines. John’s prick throbbed as he eased Matthew’s pants lower on his hips, found the single button fastening his smalls, and undid that too. His palm ached for the heat and weight of Matthew’s balls, his fingers itched to explore the whole length of him.

This is familiar ground and yet not, all at the same time.  There was a depth of feeling and an intensity of sensation that were both new, both utterly entrancing, and each of the almost-incidental brushes of John's hand against his aching length as his clothing was unfastened was an exquisitely pleasurable agony. 

"If you've no objections, I think perhaps a bed...?" Matthew suggested breathlessly.  He wanted the space, the chance to linger, the time to explore and discover and satisfy the new hunger that had woken inside of him.

“A bed, yes.” John discovered he was more than a little breathless himself, and far, far too clothed. “The household has provided excellent beds.” He was quite perilously close to babbling, but that was the delight of being with someone who _understood_. “Through the doorway behind you.” Reluctantly, John pulled a little back, made his hands leave go of the sweet, firm curve of Matthew’s nether-cheek, the delicately furred treasure of his balls. “Less of boots and uniform as well, yes?” He knew he was grinning like a boy, only just holding himself still from wriggling like one. He kept one hand on the corner of Matthew’s fly, though the garment fit well enough that there was no real danger of it slipping over the curve of his backside or down his legs. That was going to want help. As his own inexpressibles would. He was quite, quite looking forward to that revelation.

"Yes," Matthew agreed, swallowing an instinctive protest at the loss of John's hands.  He wanted so many things that he barely knew where to start; just that at that point, he wanted anything that meant more of John as badly as he'd ever wanted in his life.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" Matthew asked — nearly gasped — against John's mouth.

John chuckled, the bubble of desire-delight in his breast finding outlet. “A little, yes.” His eyelashes brushed Matthew’s flushed and nicely-shaven cheek as he looked up to meet Matthew’s eyes. “And it only gets better from here, or so I intend.” He let his hand catch Matthew’s waist, the other his opposite hip, and nudged him backwards toward the bedroom, knee to thigh, hip just brushing the eager jut of Matthew’s cock. 

Matthew shivered against him, his grip tightening on John's shoulder. He couldn't help the gasp that pulled itself from his lips, and he didn't want to.  All he wanted was to lose himself in John: in the slide of skin over skin, in the heat and joy of discovery and release.

His legs hit the bed and he let himself fall back onto it, pulling John after him, arching up into him, pressing kisses against his throat.

Now John did let himself move against Matthew, layers of wool and linen sliding between their hard shafts, tantalizing and luxurious and not-quite-enough. He shuddered all over at the touch of Matthew’s lips to his throat, his skin flushing hot. He could only bear it a moment, then hooked his fingers firmly into Matthew’s waistbands and slid down to his knees, peeling the snug cloth down Matthew’s thighs, stopping for a moment at the knees. He didn’t neglect to watch as Matthew’s hips left the bed as the cooler air hit heated skin, surprising another gasp from him. John licked his lips at the sight of the head of Matthew’s cock peeping out from its sheath, purple and damp. His own cock ached for touch. 

“Oh, aren’t you a lovely sight,” John hardly knew what he was saying, though it was certainly true. He continued to peel the trousers and small-clothes down Matthew’s legs, catching stockings and then the heels of his shoes, tugging gently until all were off. The nearby chair received the clothes with a toss as John stood up again, fingers trailing up the territory they had just travelled down. He discovered that Matthew had not been idle, cravat entirely removed, and all the rest of his buttons undone, leaving only to push coat and waistcoat the rest of the way off his shoulders. John shrugged his own coat and waistcoat off, letting them join Matthew’s trousers on the chair, and stepped out of his shoes. He wanted Matthew to strip him of the rest.

The sight of John on his knees, his mouth red with kisses, his eyes dark with desire, was almost enough to undo Matthew then and there. For a moment, he was transfixed, and when John stepped back towards him, Matthew reached out eagerly, tugging him back down onto the bed before pulling both of their shirts off.  He let his hands wander over the muscles of John's chest and stomach, brushing a fingertip across one nipple, bending over to tease the other with lips and tongue and a faint hint of teeth even as he ran a hand down John's taut stomach and started working open his breeches.  After a few seconds' fumbling thanks to the changed angle, he succeeded, and couldn't resist taking John's length in hand as it sprang free, and pausing for a moment to enjoy the sight in front of him.

Matthew was certainly no novice at this part of the proceedings, John thought as he shuddered and his hips jerked. Matthew’s gentle-firm grip on him was exquisite, not at all unsure or tentative, any more than his wandering touches and kisses on their way had been. John reached up to trace the faint line of hair down Matthew’s chest, circled and teased his rose-brown nipples to happy peaks. In a moment John would remove his breeches himself if Matthew didn’t, but he could certainly appreciate the effect of being but half-undressed, disordered linen framing his eager parts. The slight weight of the wool still covering hips and thighs only made the contrast greater. He let his spine arch, his legs fall open that little, and did not restrain the small sigh at hearing Matthew’s breath catch and shorten. 

But he wanted to be as naked as Matthew now was, press skin to skin their whole length, legs and chests and groins all tangled and moving together. He wanted to turn Matthew over and spread him wide, make him writhe on the sheets, have him come at the bidding of mouth and fingers and then again stretched and opened and snug filled, crying out under him. They had all night. Time enough for several permutations. 

John was an entrancing sight, especially as Matthew, though he’d had plenty of opportunities to touch, had only rarely gotten to look, and never like this, with no need to fear exposure and all the time in the world ahead of them. Then he tugged John's breeches the rest of the way off and was entranced all over again.  He leaned down to kiss his way up John's stomach, savoring every reaction he drew from him.

John purred and moved slowly under Matthew’s attentions, luxuriating in the purely masculine pleasure of it. Matthew smelled of arousal and good soap, a hint of cedar and lavender from his linen, subtle notes of vetiver and bergamot from an understated, elegant toilet-water. Matthew’s lips left a trail of heat that curled deep inside, along the lines of nerve and muscle, and John let himself thoroughly enjoy the slow burn building in his groin. 

Matthew's breath caught in his throat and quickened at the sight of John, sprawled naked in front of him like a promise. He gave in to the desire to explore, using hands and mouth to map out lines of muscle, to find sensitive places. Every gasp, every movement John made, sent Matthew's arousal spiraling higher, frayed his control just that little bit more. John's skin was warm and soft under Matthew's mouth and hands, irresistible, and he pressed a kiss to the line of John's hipbone before giving into temptation and taking John's length into his mouth. He'd done this only once before, but he didn't let himself hesitate; let memory guide him, as well as his own preferences.

The taste of him, the weight in Matthew's mouth, the stretch of his lips — it was all deeply satisfying, overwhelmingly arousing. Matthew took as much of John's length as he could, looking up through his lashes to watch John's face.

After one convulsive, uncontrollable jerk upward into the glorious surprise of Matthew's mouth hot and wet on him, John made himself keep his hips still, letting breath and voice channel his pleasure. This was not an act Matthew had much experience with (or he would likely have taken the precaution of anchoring John's thighs before taking him in) though he lacked nothing in instinct or enthusiasm. It was more in the sense of discovery and the slightly awkward angle of approach that John could even tell. A small part of his mind noted that Matthew’s hand had set up a rhythm of snug, almost rolling squeezes at the root of John's shaft, likely something he did when pleasuring himself, but most of him was simply enjoying the wonderful and all too rare sensation.

He wasn't going to last long, as aroused and interested as they both were, but John realized with a breathy bark of laughter there was no need or reason to hold back; they were both immortal, with the swift recovery that gave, and no need to pretend otherwise. John felt the swift tightening of his balls, moaned with the happy imminence of climax. "Matthew, I'm very close, you don't..." Have to swallow was what he was trying to say, but it was too late and he was coming with a cry.

Matthew was too caught by the moment to even think about pulling away. The taste was a surprise, but not an unpleasant one, and he swallowed reflexively.  Watching John come apart brought his own arousal to an edge so sharp that it ached, but at the moment he barely noticed, so caught up was he in the sight before him.

It was as if the effort to stay still translated directly into erotic force, sending bolts of sensation fountaining up John’s spine, jerking sounds from his throat he almost never allowed himself, and for a moment all that held him anchored was the soft weight of Matthew’s hand warm at the seam between hip and thigh, the brush of his hair against John’s belly, and the heat of his gaze as he watched John come harder than he had in some time. He felt remarkably safe as well, that Matthew did not pull away from him at the end, that he swallowed without hesitation touched something deep and fragile in John. With shaking hands he reached to caress Matthew’s hair, reciprocate that connection.

Matthew leaned into John's touch, his eyes sliding closed.  He was so close to the edge that even such simple contact was magnified, seeming to echo through his entire body.  Sliding back up the bed, he leaned down to kiss John, cradling his face in both hands, putting all of the desire and all of the pleasure that had his head spinning and his body humming into the press of his lips. “God’s blood you are beautiful” he murmured, hardly knowing he was speaking at all.

Matthew’s kiss was hungry and eager, of a piece with the burning hardness rigid against John’s belly, his own softening length. John met that almost-desperation with delight, his own deep-laid desire. With his urgent need slaked, even with nerves and muscles still trembling, John could certainly attend to Matthew. He rolled his hips into Matthew’s, urging him down on his side, never breaking the kiss. John slid his hand between them as he tangled their legs together, and took both shafts in a firm-but-gentle grip, half-hard and achingly stiff together. It wasn’t going to take much. John recalled the rhythm that Matthew had started with, and applied it: short, slick strokes, the heads of both cocks kissing as their mouths kissed. The sensation was almost too much so soon, and John could feel his breath stuttering in his breast as sweat sprang out on Matthew’s skin. 

“So are you,” John murmured, “so are you.”

This was more familiar territory, though the luxury of lying skin to skin was new, and entirely intoxicating.  Matthew could feel every inch of contact between them, even as the touch of John's hand set him aflame.  He couldn't hold back the cry that spilled from his lips any more than he could stop his head from falling back, his hips from thrusting forward.

"God," he gasped, his hands tightening on John's shoulders.

John didn’t stop, but he slowed just a bit, and took the opportunity to lick and nuzzle and kiss the throat so beautifully exposed. He didn’t want Matthew to come too soon, and he used several of the tricks he knew to hold the moment off just a little longer, seeking the perfect spot to suckle. (On James it was just under the corner of his jaw, on the right, and John had once had the delight of bringing him off with nothing but his mouth there, no hands at all and both of them fully dressed.) “Oh, ‘tis not God’s work, this” John managed between kisses and his own short breath. His balls were drawing themselves up tight again, though his cock had not recovered. “This pleasure is all man’s doing.”

John's mouth on his throat nearly tipped Matthew over the edge; would have, if John had allowed it.  When his lips found Matthew's pulse, it wa very nearly too much, too overwhelming, and Matthew cried out again, his hands sliding down to John's hips, pulling him closer.

“Oh yes,” John breathed into Matthew’s skin, feeling his racing pulse, the frantic, desperate grind of his hips. He tightened his grip and sped his fingers, bringing him to the brink. Then John sucked hard right where the big vein emerged from Matthew’s collarbone, and Matthew came apart beneath him in shattering ecstasy. John hardly noticed his own second, sharp climax. “Oh yes, just like that.”

Matthew clung to John as his release tore through him, every fiber of his being caught up in shattering pleasure.

"Oh, yes," he said, echoing John, once he was again capable of speech. "God, yes.  That —"  Words failed him, so he resorted to touch, resting one hand on John's chest, over his heart, and bringing their mouths together.

For a long moment they lay tangled together as their hearts slowed and breath evened out. It was a rare delight and luxury to know that no-one would look for either of them until morning or later, and they could slowly learn each other’s mouth, map the contours of bone and muscle with lazy fingertips, just breathe in the warmth and closeness of another like oneself. This kind of intimacy was rarer and more precious than even the delightful carnal exercise they had done, and served as a sweet prelude to what John intended they should go on to do. They were neither of them spent; this was the interlude, and worth savoring on it’s own. 

Matthew reached up and smoothed John's hair out of his eyes, then lingered there, enjoying the feel of the soft strands between his fingers.

He could feel John's heartbeat beneath his palm, the way his breathing was evening out.  He himself was still humming with new-roused desires, but for the moment this satisfied them, left him content, happy, glad to curl around John, learning him with hands as well as eyes. He brought John's hand to his mouth, kissing first the soft skin of his wrist, then his palm, stroking his thumb over a line of callus.

"What were you doing before the war brought you here?" he asked, wanting to know more about John than the way he looked without clothing, or the sounds he made when he couldn't help himself.  Matthew had never been one to seek a solely physical attraction.   He liked to know those who shared his bed in more than the Biblical sense, and even had he not gone home with John, he'd have sought out his company at some point.

The question was not obtrusive, somehow: the note of genuine interest clear to John. The fingers that brushed through his hair were gentle, and the lips unabashedly kissing his hand — wet with both their juices — firm and warm. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be lying with their softening cocks nestled together, and to now approach a closeness of mind as well. “The Americas,” John answered slowly, “I have some land there still, but after news of Trafalgar, I wanted to come home to England. It was past time to make a truly new life.” He let his fingers trace wandering patterns on Matthew’s skin. “Not that the Army is all that different from what it was fifty years ago. And you?”

"South Carolina, actually."  Matthew chuckled, amused by the coincidence.  "I have every intention of returning there, actually, once Bonaparte is contained."  He shivered slightly under the touch of John's fingers.  "The United States has been my home for some time now - since the Revolution."  He made no effort to hide the smile that tugs at his lips.  He hadn't intended to take up arms against England - that had been Corwin's fault - but the American cause had won him over in its own right before very long.  "Not that I'd ever expected to find a home there, you understand.  I have a student who tends to embroil me in complicated situations from time to time, and one of his more inspired acts of mayhem ended with me in an American uniform and him locked in the stockade."

“North,” said John, somewhat surprised. John’s feelings on the entire subject of the American Revolution were still inextricably tied up in his own personal history, but he found that the last ten years had done what the previous thirty could not, and he could recall Fraiser and his difficult wife without the twist of painful feeling that had always before accompanied those memories. “I had more sympathy at the time for the Tories, but had … reasons … to aid the revolutionaries. Probably just as well we did not meet then.“ Hugh had been right, though it had taken perhaps longer than it might have: he truly was not constrained to be the John Grey he had been. “And fortunately, neither Hugh nor James have ever had to rescue _me_ from folly.” 

"I honestly believe that Corwin thinks I'll get bored if I don't have to get him out of one scrape or another every few decades."  Matthew propped himself up on one elbow, smiling ruefully.  "I hadn't even lived a full mortal lifetime when I took him on as a student, and there are times when I think I'm still not remotely prepared for the responsibility.  He likes to steal things, and to get himself killed in public.  A student I didn't have to rescue would be a welcome respite."  For all of that, he was glad of Corwin's continued presence in his life.  The younger Immortal had a knack for keeping him from taking things too seriously.

“I think Hugh would have liked to have rescued me, instead of what was perilously close to the other way around,” John said, meeting Matthew’s smile. “But I knew I was molly — oh, not the word, but the attraction — before I was out of the nursery. Immortality is much the easier secret to keep.”

"From what I know of Hugh, it's entirely in character for him to be the one in need of rescue."  Matthew chuckled again, then sobered, lifting a curious eyebrow.  "You really knew so early?" he asked.  He'd had his own encounters as a boy, but the Church's disapproval, and society's expectations, had kept him from actively seeking them out, or from allowing any of them to become serious.

“Yes,” John said simply. He remembered the morning after he had finally been given his very own pony and permission to ride her as long as Stickney or one of the senior grooms was in attendance, slipping out of the house and down to the stables, just to make sure he had not imagined the granting of his then dearest wish, not even in riding-clothes but his house-shoes and nankeen jacket; hearing a rustle in the stall at the end of the row, peering through the crack in the panel at Jem-groom and Tom-footman with their coats off, breeches down about their knees, straining together just as his father’s big stallion had when he’d covered Lord Mumford’s prize mare. He’d crept backward, holding his breath, and escaped back to the other wing of the stables where Stickney found him later talking to Old Molly. John had never breathed a word, had no language for what he’d felt, and never forgot the image. 

Matthew let his fingers trail idly over John's chest, following the curve of a rib, a line of muscle, enjoying the contact for its own sake.  He couldn't imagine considering Immortality the least of his secrets, but at the same time, there was a certainty in John's knowledge of himself that he imagined must stem from the same place — from the decision to hide, rather than to conform — and that he found incredibly attractive.

"I was fourteen," he says, "and already cutting a swath through the local girls — at least, until my father told me that our position made such things dishonorable, as the girls might feel themselves unable to refuse."  He smiles.  "At the time, such concern for the feelings of the lower classes was unusual, to say the least, but that was the sort of man he was.  Anyway, that summer I rode with him to war for the first time, and one of his men at arms - who couldn't have been much more than three years my senior — showed me that there were other kinds of pleasures to be had."

That had been a golden summer, the last before his father's illness had left him the title at fifteen, with all its attendant responsibilities.  He'd thought himself a man then, but really what he'd been was free, in a way he never had been since.

“I was sixteen and army-mad, when I persuaded my brother to take me with him when the regiment went north to quell the Uprising.” Matthew’s matter-of-factness telling his own story, his hands never leaving off their warm explorations, his solid _presence_ had somehow unstoppered a well of things John had never spoken of, had never thought could _be_ spoken, much less heard without judgement. He almost wondered what his tongue was going to say next. “Hector was my first. We had known each other from infancy. We did … not even as much as you and I have done.” John no longer wore the sapphire ring, but he still had it. “Did your man at arms … come home from that war?”

"He came home that summer, and the next.  The year after, we were outnumbered, and I wasn't yet the commander my father had been." Matthew kept his voice deliberately light, though it wasn't easy, and his hand drifted of its own accord to an old scar just under his collarbone.  "I nearly came into my Immortality at sixteen — and then almost missed it entirely when the wound went bad.  William didn't make it off the battlefield."  It was a hurt, but an old one, and William would be seven hundred years in the grave regardless, so Matthew put it aside.

More of love there than John had first thought, then. But Matthew had already struck him as one to care about the people he was with. How else would it be that they were even having this conversation? John pulled Matthew back down, into his arms. Size didn’t matter horizontal. He had noticed the scar, and now John kissed it, just a brush of lips. “Hector died at Culloden,” he said, very nearly inaudibly into Matthew’s shoulder, a sharing, not a belittling or one-upping of Matthew’s feelings. 

Matthew kissed him, because it was a better answer to grief than any words he could summon, at least now, in this place, letting whatever it was growing between them wash away the sting of old hurts.

"The only way to survive it all is to hold onto memory and let go of the pain," he said after a moment. "Otherwise, you'll go mad." Ceirdwyn had hammered that into him, and without it, he'd never have lived through the horror of the next century. More than a few Immortals hadn't. "Besides, that's the best way to honor their memories. My teacher made a point of driving that home, and it's the best advice I know to give one of us."

“James and Hugh both said very much the same.” It was a lesson that John had begun to learn before he came into his immortality, but the reminder was a comfort. “Hugh of course demonstrating with great enthusiasm an operatic madness to illustrate his point.” The sting that had threatened his eyes retreated at the far more happy memory. “I’m sure you can imagine it.”

Matthew chuckled. "I can." He kissed John again, smiling at him. "Hugh came closer than anyone but Cory to getting me beheaded by the authorities. He's a lunatic, and a good man." He'd have been a good teacher, too, despite his refusal to take life too seriously, or perhaps because of it, at least in John's case.

“He is a good man.” John said, returning Matthew’s kiss. “So are you.” He would quite like to hear how Hugh nearly got Matthew killed, as well as any other story the man would care to tell, but he was also not sure where they were going with what was growing between them. It had started as cheerfully uncomplicated lust, but had shifted into something more, indeed, complicated; something new in his experience. This was beginning to feel like a different kind of relationship entirely. 

Matthew flushed at the compliment, too pleased to take it gracefully. "I try to be," he said quietly. "My understanding of what that means changes all the time, though the basics stay essentially the same." He shrugged, and to dismiss the seriousness of the moment, said, "For example, I find it difficult to care about religious differences any longer, though that's how Hugh nearly got me killed."

John nodded slowly. He had never been particularly religious himself, though perfectly practiced in the appropriate outer forms. “Difficult to be ‘enthusiastic’ about an institution that considers one an abomination in any case. But how ever did Hugh manage it? And get you back out of the difficulty? I fully expect the whole thing was a comedy of errors.”

Matthew laughed. "It was certainly comedy, though I didn't see it that way at the time. Back then, you understand, everyone was Catholic, and whatever they may or may not have thought of the Church, Henry's break with her was a shock.  Hugh was particularly offended by the plundering of the monasteries, and after a night of drinking and listening to him tell me some of the more unpleasant details, I was too." He let his fingers go back to wandering over John's chest. "To make a long story short, he talked me into getting some of the valuables out of the way before they could be taken. He neglected to tell me that the monks didn't know we were coming. They took us for common thieves."

Indeed, it was all to easy to imagine, and entirely of a piece with Hugh’s way of looking at the world. John laughed too, and leaned into Matthew’s touch. “Oh dear. And I expect there were rather more of them than there were of you.” He gave his own hands license to rove again, enjoying the smoothness of Matthew’s skin over the firm shapes of his muscles.

"Rather more," Matthew said, chuckling as well. "Hugh got it all straightened out, but not before the King's men were beating on the door.  We had to hide in the cow shed for hours until they'd gone, along with the Abbey's most precious treasures."

“Thereby achieving his aim of preserving the pretty things.” John turned his head to nuzzle and kiss the hollow of Matthew’s throat, the arch of his collarbones and the long lines of his neck. “Especially this pretty thing.”

"I doubt Hugh considers me pretty," Matthew said, his voice suddenly ragged, breath catching at the touch of John's lips to his throat, hand flattening onto John's chest.  The touch reignited the fire that had been lying quiet in the back of his mind, quiescent in his veins. "Or, in all honesty, that anyone could."  It was not an adjective that had been applied to him since he was a child, and he doubted it had been merited then.

“Nonsense,” said John forthrightly, turning them so Matthew was on his back and John was straddling his hips, their groins still nestled together, both beginning to harden again. “Hugh is not so oblivious to male beauty as that, though he seldom remarks on it; and he would have been very sorry indeed to have lost you, you know.” John would not have expected Matthew to be afflicted with that particular self-doubt, though certainly he had met it before, and set about disabusing him of it with hands and mouth. “Perhaps ‘pretty’ is not the best word — I find you to be entirely beautiful, exceeding desirable and attractive.” _Every scar and callus of you, every mark of life and strength and manhood._ But he did not think Matthew would hear that last as the paean it was to John, so he said it by kissing those places he had already discovered Matthew to be sensitive, teasing his nipples to points, sucking an ephemeral set of love-bites at collarbone and breast bone. “An I shall prove it you,” John said to Matthew’s blush “to our mutual satisfaction.”

It seemed to Matthew as though all of the desire that had sung in him before had been reawakened in a few warm moments, in the first touches of John's hands and mouth. He was hard again almost instantly, with a swiftness that surprised him, as did the intensity with which he felt the touch of John's skin against his own. He arched up into the contact as John's mouth closed over his nipple, unable to hold still or to stop the groan that the sensation wrung from his lips. The scrape of John's teeth sent sparks and heat tingling through his body, pooling low in his belly. He lifted a hand, ran it along the line of John's throat, down his chest, and over his stomach before wrapping it around John's length, wanting to feel him.

John leaned into Matthew’s hand, the graze of his fingertips over the ridges of the scars on John’s chest sending a deep shaft of fire through him, an unspoken understanding, acknowledgement, and grace. He chuckled as Matthew cupped and stroked his sex, shifting to let Matthew get an easier grip, enjoying the feel of the proud cock stiff and hot behind his balls, the root of him teasing John’s most intimate opening. With a thump of the heart John realized that he would be willing to have Matthew take him, on some other occasion, that in even so new an acquaintance he had no doubt that he could trust Matthew with that, as he had really only _trusted_ James and Manoc. (Percy … had been complicated, and George — George had been a species of self-flagellation, he had come to realize these many years hence.) John rocked his hips a little, gently pressing and rubbing along Matthew’s shaft, and attended to Matthew’s splendidly taut and muscled belly, petting and stroking the tender skin under the points of his hips. “So beautiful,” he murmured.

Matthew let himself writhe under the touch of John's hands, giving himself permission to react, to _feel_ , to be entirely aware of every moment.  He slid his free hand down the line of John's spine, then followed the curve of his hipbone, the strong muscle of his thigh. Matthew couldn't help coloring at being called beautiful.  John was, but Matthew had never had the word applied to him before, and he was not certain it fit. "It's you who are the beautiful one," he murmured.

 _Oh, more beautiful by the moment,_ John thought. “Desire cannot but become a man,” he said, feeling his face heat a little at the compliment. It wasn’t that he was unaware of his appearance (and that if he did not take care ‘pretty’ was indeed the word), or the fact that he used it as a tool, a disguise, on occasion a weapon; it was that he could tell that Matthew meant more than just the surface, and so few people ever looked beneath the polish and the manner to the man, the person. If anything it aroused him further, and for a moment he shuddered with the force of his desire and his care. Matthew’s hands were sending sparks and waves of heat everywhere they touched, making John tremble as they traced lightly down his spine, lingered briefly at the so-sensitive place just above his nether-cheeks. His thighs widened, turned, mutely exposing the inner expanse to Matthew’s attention. John leaned forward, letting their bellies touch, kissing up Matthew’s chest and neck until he reached lips. His hand sought the pocket of the bed-hangings, and the pottle of unguent there. 

Matthew ran his fingers along John's sensitive inner thighs, then over his sac, trailing delicate patterns over the soft skin behind his stones before cupping them, rolling them gently in his palm.  Almost idly, he watched John reach for the watch-pocket.  The jar in his hand meant nothing at first; then Matthew realized what it was.  He drew a shuddering breath, feeling a sharp, electric jolt of arousal flood through him, a flutter of nerves that did nothing to diminish his desire.

John noticed Matthew’s reaction to the pottle even as he moved happily in Matthew’s wonderfully strong and callused hand. The stutter of breath was telling enough, but even more was the jump and pulse of Matthew’s cock where it pressed between John’s legs. No doubt at all of his interest. John deepened his kiss as he put the jar down by his knee and pulled one of the pillows from the pile at the head of the bed. Only a little reluctantly he let go of Matthew’s mouth and knelt up, urging Matthew to spread his legs, bend his knees (kissing inside each one as it rose) and arch up so John could tuck the pillow under his hips, and then set himself snug between Matthew’s thighs. 

Matthew could feel the lingering press of John's lips on each knee as he bent his legs, as he lifted his hips at John's urging, feeling exposed and aroused and almost wanton. His cock was achingly hard, missing the heat of John's body, and he bit his lip, trying to regain some control over the fire raging inside of him.

John felt his own breath stutter and catch at Matthew’s willingness to open to him, at the sight he made spread and exposed and aroused. For a moment he just drank in the glorious sight, shaken with need-desire and happiness. Matthew’s prick was jutting up, red and weeping, and John knew just what to do about that. He loosened the lid on the jar and dipped two fingers in, scooping out a goodly dollop; with his other hand he wrapped Matthew in a snug grip. Matthew’s thighs were trembling with anticipation, and John took Matthew’s shaft well into his mouth as he brought his slick fingers to slide and circle at Matthew’s entrance. So open and willing. So very beautiful.

The wet heat of John's mouth pulled Matthew's hips up off the bed, but the first touch of his fingers anchored them in place, made him gasp. He could feel that touch all the way through his body, the pleasure and intensity of it a revelation in itself, as was the need that was twisting through him.

John had anticipated the jerk of Matthew’s hips, and moved easily with it, pleased with Matthew’s gratifying response to the touch at his entrance. He ventured to press a fingertip gently in, slow and smooth, happy to find a yielding snugness to the unfamiliar sensation, not a clamping tight against invasion. “Breathe,” John murmured, hearing Matthew’s breath grow ragged and short. “Just breathe and feel me touching you.” He pressed a little deeper with a tiny, circular petting motion, in and around, letting Matthew get used to the feeling as he returned to suckling the head of Matthew’s cock. His own shaft was rigid with want, but he could wait, would wait until Matthew was entirely ready for him. It wasn’t as if both of them couldn’t — wouldn’t — thoroughly enjoy this slow fingering open. 

Matthew drew a shuddering breath.  The feel of John's finger sliding into him was indescribable.  He couldn't decide whether he wanted to arch up into John's mouth or press backwards, to deepen the penetration, intensify the unfamiliar pleasure that was beginning to course through him.

The tightness around John’s knuckle relaxed as Matthew took a deeper breath, making John smile around him. He introduced a second slick finger beside the first, easing it in, turning and delving slow, now seeking that little bump, the magical place that sent sparks flying. Matthew’s shaft was not flagging in the least, and John was beginning to think that Matthew was one who could come being fucked - which he himself usually did not. There was the place. He gave it the lightest pressure, every sense attending to Matthew’s reaction, what would be pleasure and not too much. 

Matthew caught his breath as John added another finger, pleasure rising higher and higher, making it impossible to stay still.  Then John touched something inside of him.  Every cell in Matthew's body seemed to shatter with ecstasy, sparks exploding behind his eyes.  He could hear someone breathing in ragged near-sobs, realized it was himself, and didn't care.  The sensations rushing through him, John's eyes on him — it was almost overwhelming, almost — but not quite — too much.  He was pushing back against John's hand, heedless of anything save what John was doing to him, wanting it — wanting more — with everything he had.

Matthew’s balls were tight under John’s hand, and the needy sounds coming from his throat were sending bolts of fire straight to John’s cock. This was going to be over all too soon if he didn’t slow them both down a little. Matthew was so very beautifully responsive, finding delight in very touch and sensation. John was sure he could bring Matthew to completion with just his fingers, but that wasn’t what either of them wanted this time. 

He pulled his fingers back a little, flexing them together and apart, encouraging the muscles still trembling with the jolt of pleasure that place inside gave to stretch and open further. John tightened his other hand briefly around the base of Matthew’s shaft, stemming that tide just enough, and let go as he left off sucking. His own breath was coming short and hard as he fumbled for the unguent and applied a liberal amount to his aching shaft, the coolness of it welcome against his hard heat. Slowly, smoothly, he withdrew his fingers, still twisting and stretching Matthew’s opening, until he could line himself up, trembling with need, and nudge the blunt, weeping head of his cock just inside that wonderfully tight ring. Matthew was arching under him, head thrashing on the sheets, breathing in broken sobs. John had to stop then, nearly overcome, letting Matthew adjust to the stretch, the sensation. “Matthew,” John groaned, close to overcome. “Oh god, Matthew.”

Matthew protested wordlessly as John's fingers withdrew, already missing the sensation.  Then John was pressing into him, both of them trembling with desire.  Hearing his name on John's lips made Matthew impossibly harder, made him _want_ , and while the feel of John sliding into him was breathtaking, it wasn't enough, didn't satisfy the ache that had awakened inside of him.

"John," he gasped, pushing back, trying to urge John forward, "don't stop, God, please don't stop."  He knew he was babbling, but he didn't care.

When Matthew thrust his hips up, meeting him, John could not keep from driving in, sheathing himself fully in Matthew’s glorious velvet heat, tight and enveloping as a glove. He retained only enough control to keep his movement smooth and not too fast, for however much Matthew wanted this (and oh, he obviously did) and immortal healing notwithstanding, John _would not_ have this marred by any hurt, not with what his own first experience had been. His name in Matthew’s voice, the need in it, the desire, fired his heart, brought an unregarded hot sting to his eyes. John paused for a breathless moment, curled over Matthew’s torso, buried as deep as he could go, and then he began to move as their bodies demanded, starting as slow as he could bear, and as Matthew met each thrust gaining speed until they were striving together toward the airless peak of ecstasy.

Matthew cried out as John slid the rest of the way in, stretching him, _filling_ him, answering an ache he'd never realized he felt.  In the still moment before John started to move, the intimacy of it, of penetration, of having John _inside_ of him, was as breathtaking as the sensations flooding his body.  Then John began moving, and Matthew was swept away in an overwhelming tide of desire and fulfillment, hunger and need and ecstasy.  He angled his hips, met each of John's thrusts, until one, then another hit that place inside of him. Then, all he could do was gasp John's name, holding tight to his arms. He was suspended just at the edge of release, rocked by waves of ecstasy, one after the other until he was almost blind with pleasure.

They had found a rhythm that pulsed through them in timeless, exquisite sensation, balanced at the cusp of orgasm as if they could stay there forever, the immediate moment all. Climax would come, glorious when it did, but the present instant held everything that mattered, joined as completely as possible in the oldest dance of all. John could see that Matthew was entirely caught up, completely open to the experience; John himself was only just this side of being swept away, and that because he wanted the pleasure of witnessing Matthew’s pleasure. So beautiful. So amazingly tight and hot and open to him. John tilted up, bent over and lengthened his stroke until he was pounding deep. Matthew cried out again, his own pace growing ragged at the change, his cock straining purple and wet between them. John turned his hand to grasp it, letting it move in the ring of his fingers as they strove. That was enough to bring Matthew over the brink, and he came apart gloriously and completely.

The touch of John's hand was all it took to send Matthew free-falling over the edge into a rush of ecstasy that flooded his entire body.  He heard himself gasping John's name, knew he was clinging to John with bruising strength, but it was all distant, made so by the force of his release.  When the intensity of it faded, he felt almost as though he was floating in a hazy sea of pleasure that sharpened to intensity again as John thrusted into him.

"God, John," he gasped again, lifting a hand to John's face, caressing his cheek and stroking a thumb over his lower lip.  "God, you're incredible."

Matthew’s muscles clenched and pulsed around him as Matthew climaxed, coming long and hard. John’s breath stopped in his throat, and he barely held on as his body rushed headlong towards his own incipient release. The gasp of his name, Matthew’s slick, snug heat, the fierce grip of his hands as John pushed in desperately once more and the delicate, trembling touch to cheek and lip conspired to undo him utterly. He had no breath to cry out, all the force of his release convulsing through him without voice, shaking him to pieces. 

The sight and feeling of John coming apart above him, inside of him, undid Matthew to the heart. He pulled John down into a kiss, trying to show somehow what he didn't yet have the words for. It was a slow kiss, deep and lingering and underlain with passion. Part of Matthew wished that this moment could stretch on indefinitely. He was entirely sated, content on a level that never came easily to him.

John was shaken by the thoroughness by which his orgasm took him, how deeply moved he was feeling. Matthew’s arms around him were a comfort that squeezed at his heart, and his kiss like water after thirst, sweet and necessary. The position they were in was not particularly sustainable, but John did not want to move, particularly did not want to separate and withdraw from where the last aftershocks of release were pulsing gently around his spent and softening length. He thought perhaps that Matthew no more wished the moment to end than he did. 

Matthew ran his hand up and down John's back, his other hand stroking John's hair. "I don't think I have the words for this," he murmured, kissing John again, unwilling to stop.  "I had no idea."

John had to swallow before he could trust his voice, and even then he wasn’t finding words either. The almost instinctive self-deprecation (and the social milieu that produced it - the rules that precluded getting too close, too involved, too emotionally intimate, lest it all come to ruin and exposure) struck him as singularly inappropriate, and, for possibly the first time in his life, unnecessary. Matthew knew and shared the two greatest and most dangerous of his secrets, and that was in all likelihood why they had been able to be so immediately and joyously unrestrained with each other. Immortality _did_ make a difference. “I … did not either, I think.” 

He felt himself slipping free from Matthew, limp and spent, and sighed, bending to steal another kiss before urging Matthew onto his side and slithering up to spoon behind him. His knees were still shaking a little, and they both chuckled as their limbs tangled. When they were comfortably nestled together, John stroked his hand down Matthew’s side, caressed the damp curve of his cheek and slid between to pet at Matthew’s entrance in mute inquiry. James liked John’s fingers in him nearly any way he could have them, and particularly after a good fuck; perhaps Matthew would as well. “You are extraordinary, I trust you know.”

The touch of John's fingers sent a curl of arousal through Matthew's belly, and he shifted to give John better access.  "I rather think you're the extraordinary one," he said, breathless already, just from the simple touch.  He turned his head and kissed John again, relishing the caress of his mouth, and savoring the warmth that touching John sparked in his chest.  He was hesitant to name it, since for all he knew, John considered this no more than a pleasant diversion, but that hesitation didn't keep him from feeling it, bright in his heart and unmistakable.  John's fingers pressing into him made him arch his back and catch his breath as the touch reawakened the ghost of earlier caresses. 

John rubbed his face against the curve of Matthew’s shoulder, the kiss tingling unaccountably on his lips. There was a fluttering tightness in his chest as Matthew arched and shivered at the press of his fingers, opening to him again so sweet and eager. John knew it would be a little while before his parts were ready for more, but judging from Matthew’s reaction, in this he was more like James than not. John let his fingers slowly curl and slide, tiny, delicate movements, just enough to very gradually encourage the coals of desire to grow again. He loved this, the slick, soft heat of a lover’s most intimate entrance around his fingers, the taste of sweat and musk and seed, the laying down of all the armor that the world required to be met with, lest it flatten one. 

Matthew was still amazed at the pleasure he found from this, and at the length of time it had taken him to make the discovery.  John's fingers were a delicious tease, working him open again oh-so-slowly, stirring him just as slowly to renewed desire.  Matthew reached an arm behind him, wanting to touch, trailed his fingertips down the muscular length of John's thigh, over the delicate skin inside the curve of his knee. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" he whispered.

John felt his face heat again at the compliment, and the flutter returned under his breastbone. He shivered and moved into Matthew’s touch, winding his ankle around Matthew’s and leaning his forehead against Matthew’s strong back. He swallowed again, finding the words surprisingly hard to say. “I suspicion ‘tis mutual.” He hardly noticed he had reverted to the cadences of his youth.

Matthew's heart started pounding at John's admission.  It had been nearly a century since he'd felt this sort of connection with anyone, this sort of hunger to know their soul as well as their body.

Oh, it would be easy to fall headlong for this man, John thought, but he had learned thrice over the danger of infatuation. This, though, had none of the fever he recalled with George or the long and helpless falter between ice and fire that had been his feelings for Jamie. This was more like the coal of warmth that the thought of James brought, the lift of spirits that any mention of Hugh was bound to cause, even the distant bonhomie of Harry Quarrel or Stephan von Namtzen. John found he very much wanted Matthew for a friend as much as a lover; to be known as well inside as out. John could feel Matthew’s heart speed at his words, and he let his fingers ease a little deeper into Matthew’s welcoming tight heat. The unexpected pulse in his own arse told him that not only did he trust Matthew, but that he could come — was coming swiftly — to want him that way as well. 

Matthew turned and kissed him again, sliding his fingers through John's fine blond hair.  "If you're not careful," he warned, "you'll have me needing you again."  His cock was beginning to stir, and the hunger that had driven him to tilt his hips up into John's thrusts was beginning to reawaken deep inside of him.  "Not, you understand, that I have any objection to the idea."

John laughed, letting his head butt against Matthew’s fingers like a cat, enjoying the caress. “Oh, I shall have a care to that very end,” he said, twisting his hand slowly and letting his thumb find the soft skin between his cheeks. The unguent-jar was just behind his hip, the lid loosely placed. John retrieved it with his other hand and kissed his way down Matthew’s spine, lavishing attention on the neatly marked triangle just at the base and pressing Matthew’s upper leg further up, spreading his cheeks. Matthew caught on immediately, tilting his hips and nearly purring as John pressed a third slippery finger in. “I’ve a mind to have you come just this way, with naught but my fingers in your arse.” His voice was low and dark with desire, his own groin heavy and hot, though his prick was still soft. That made no difference to the pleasure he felt. “Shall you like that?”

"Oh, god," Matthew gasped, the offer sending a curl of heat through him, making him tighten on John's fingers.  "Please," he said, his cock starting to swell in earnest.  "It will be so good."

“Indeed it will be. Word and hand on’t.” He pressed that little bump inside, and John could see the shudder of desire that ran through Matthew, hear the need roughening his voice, catching in his breath. John set up a twisting, pulsing, not-quite-even rhythm, now delving deep, grazing that spot with each finger-thrust, thumb firm against the underside of his bollocks, and then a slow, wide turning that stretched Matthew oh so beautifully open, made his thighs tremble and his hands clutch at the sheets. All the while John murmured filthy-sweet words, until Matthew was moaning and bucking under him, and and John’s own sex was hard again.

Matthew had never known anyone who could turn him inside out so easily, reduce him to broken begging with nothing but his fingers. Until today, he'd had no idea that his body would respond like  this, that he was capable of this hunger.  Now that he knew, he found himself curious, wanting to try all the various permutations he could think of to enjoy this new discovery.

It wasn't an indiscriminate hunger.  The only man he wanted was John - though with John, he had the feeling he could be very wanton indeed.

John had Matthew writhing on all four fingers now, curled around the pillow and making desperate needy sounds that went straight to John’s cock. He leaned over Matthew’s shuddering form and breathed in his ear while his hand, buried to the knuckles, moved in a deep, slow twist that pressed against that spot. “Shall you come, my beauty? Come for me, writhing and wanton and hungry on my hand?” With just the tip of his tongue John traced the whorl of Matthew’s ear. He put the barest edge of the command-tone that had sent men wheresoever he willed into his voice and said, quiet and distinct: “Come for me, Matthew. Come now.”

"Oh, god!"  John's low-voiced command, the stream of sweet, filthy words issuing from his lips, seized Matthew just above his hips, had him working himself open on John's fingers even as orgasm tore through him.  "John, John," he pleaded, as ecstasy shook him apart once more.

Did Matthew _want_ John's entire hand in him? The way he was bucking back on his fingers, pushing and pleading even as release crashed through him would seem to be saying so. His own throat locked, heart racing and stumbling, John fumbled for the jar, dipping out a great dollop and spreading it liberally over his half-buried hand to the wrist. He could not breathe, and his own prick was as forge-hot iron, weeping against his belly. As Matthew cried out and lunged against him, cock spurting into the pillow, John tucked his thumb into the space his curved knuckles held open and held himself quite, quite still, letting Matthew make the choice: his body’s hunger for sensation, his mind’s will, his heart’s desire. 

Matthew only hesitated for a second before pushing himself back onto John's hand, the aftershocks of orgasm still shuddering through him. After that single movement of acceptance, he held himself motionless, letting John decide how much to give him.  He was spread wider than he'd ever thought a body capable of, every one of John's movements, no matter how small, vibrating through him.  The pleasure was so raw as to be overwhelming, to be almost too much. Matthew was quivering like a struck gong, his every nerve fixed on and attuned to John’s touch.

He could not have known this was even _possible_ John thought, a sound like a whimper escaping his throat as Matthew’s definite push took John’s finger-knuckles past the tightly stretched ring of muscle, leaving only the thumb-knuckle to go. For a timeless moment they were both utterly still, breath held, entirely aware of each other. Then John managed to exhale, saying with light-headed desperation as he tucked his thumb as small as possible and leaned a feather-weight in, “Breathe. Breathe deep. Push.” 

(He had done this once before, when James had begged him, the one time John had ever seen James truly devastated. James had been Quickening-riven, having taken (with appalling, bitter efficiency) the Hunter who had dishonorably killed one of his long-time (as in hundreds of years) friend/lover/students, threatened John himself, and mocked James for loving unnaturally. John had been touched by the lightning too, the first taste of a Quickening-storm, but it had veritably attacked James, left him with a need that neither John’s prick nor the bronze engine could ease. James had talked him into it, talked him through the process, had wanted — pleaded for — as much roughness, harshness, as John was willing to give. John had never done anything more intimate in his life, and he had been terrified (and thoroughly, achingly, terribly aroused) the entire time, until James was heaving great, hard sobs of release, his whole body shaking, and John feeling like he was holding James’ very heart in his hand, gripped in indescribably tight, soft, wet heat.) 

Matthew gasped desperately, once, twice, and John felt the so-tight ring relax a tiny amount, and then meet his pressure. With tremendous, difficult care, John eased the last width of his hand past the first band of muscle and then the second. His other hand was spread, slick and shaking at the small of Matthew’s back, and there was no air in the room, no air at all.

Matthew couldn't breathe, couldn't keep from writhing, didn't want to. He was desperate, aching and trembling and impossibly hard again, split wider than he'd ever imagined, and the utter surrender it required had him gasping into the pillow, fighting his own nature, winning through sheer force of desire and will.  He wanted this, this thing he'd never even conceived, and he managed to hold his hips still even as the rest of him writhed helplessly on the bed.

Then John’s hand was fully in, enclosed in that unutterably soft, tight, hot space. John let his fingers unclench and curl into a loose cup, shaking almost as hard as Matthew. The grip on his wrist was astonishing, and again it was exactly as if Matthew’s heart was beating in his palm. But Matthew had surrendered to him freely, even joyously, where James needed him to take, begged John to break him open and make him yield; pleasure, yes, relief and shattering release for both James and John, but it had been spurred by need, not unfettered desire and joy. “Oh God. Oh Matthew. So beautiful, so amazing,” John said on a sob, letting his other hand rub small circles at the base of Matthew’s spine. The sounds Matthew was making, the heat of him, the glorious freedom with which he was writhing and thrashing and utterly in John’s hands was cracking open John’s heart, squeezing his balls, pulling a fierce and unlooked-for release from him that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, the crown of his head, the very depths of him. His seed ribboned out in hard pulses to glisten on his wrist, the wet swell of Matthew’s arsecheek, gleam white against the stretched red curve of muscle that hid John’s hand. It was as if he were spilling his very self out in response to Matthew’s gift.

This intimacy was like nothing Matthew had ever experienced before, nothing he'd ever imagined giving or being given.  It went well beyond the physical, beyond the immediate act into something more.  It was as if Matthew's very heart was cradled in John’s fingers: as if that careful touch has gone all the way to his soul. "Oh, god, John!" Matthew cried out, head falling back, sensation finally, suddenly, overwhelming him.  Vision, hearing, speech - all of it vanished in a brilliant white burst of ecstasy more overwhelming than any he'd ever felt.

John managed to maintain enough presence of mind to move with Matthew as he convulsed in shattering release, even though John’s own bones were liquid, pulses shaking through him like hammer-beats. John curled over Matthew’s hip, hardly aware of his own stuttering breath, the wetness on his face, so focussed was he on Matthew. John could feel Matthew’s blood beating against his hand as if it were his own, and as that racing tempo evened and slowed, his did as well. Aftershocks were still washing through him, and his skin felt as if the air itself had weight and texture. John let his forehead rest in the dip of Matthew’s waist, and finally gave way to the tumult of feeling that rose from the deepest parts of him, battering in his breast for release. He had no words for what he was feeling, what they had done, and was only - distantly - glad he had long since learned to cry in silence.

Sight and hearing returned slowly, leaving Matthew shaking and shaken, unable to move, sated on a level he'd never even approached before, let alone reached.  John had stripped away all his defenses - with his willing assistance - and left him open, glad to be vulnerable.  Even should this end with his heart in pieces, it will have been worth it for the joy of these moments.

He turned his head to look at John, stomach fluttering, wondering what he would see there.  The wetness on the side of his face touched Matthew to the heart, and sent a flash of apprehension through him, lest he had done something to cause John pain.  He lifted a hand to John's hair, stroking the soft blond strands.

He didn’t speak, not wanting to push.  Instead, he let his touch speak for him, let it offer contact and kindness, worry and understanding, comfort and, frighteningly, a brightness that he knew was love and could not completely hide.

At the gentle touch of Matthew’s hand in his hair, John raised his head to look at Matthew, giving him what he knew to be a watery and tremulous smile. “No hurt,” he managed, struck by the care, the warmth in Matthew’s gaze. “O’erwhelmed, e’en as you.” He had to swallow, blink, struggle to even out the disorder of his breath. “Such a gift you are, an’ all unlooked for.” 

There was a sensation in his breast John could not tell from pain, sharp and unexpected and terrifying in an entirely familiar way. They had made a connection between them, one that John knew he would cherish however long he might live.

Matthew returned John's smile and wiped a few tears away with his thumb.  "Just so long as you're sure I've done you no hurt," he said, watching John's eyes as he waited for a response.  His heart was so full as to be almost painful.

“No, no hurt,” John said again: that affection and sex and even affectionate sex were easy and love hard was none of Matthew’s doing; nor did John regret loving as he had, however hard or hurtful to himself. He turned and kissed the pad of Matthew’s thumb as it brushed at his cheek. John resumed making slow and soothing circles at the small of Matthew’s back. He could feel the profound relaxation in Matthew begin to retreat, and was once again astonishingly, tremendously aware of his hand so intimately connected, deeply held within Matthew’s most private place. “I must…” he carefully gathered his fingers back into a point, thumb tucked snug, and tried not to react or wince when Matthew’s muscles tightened around him, not wanting to let go. 

It had been the withdrawal of John’s hand from within him that had broken the final barrier, the last resistance in James, that had freed the grief locked behind the rage, as the penetration had transmuted both that rage and the quickening-agony into overwhelming sensation and (as James had explained later) allowed him quick victory over the vanquished immortal]’s tenacious and vicious spirit. John hoped never again to have to hear such a desolate sound as James had made, empty. John had never known if he had waited too long, or if the emptiness had come too soon, if he had caused inadvertent hurt or if it had all simply been too much. He had hastened to hold James tight, finding himself babbling nonstop the kind of nonsense that had comforted infant William, or men dying on battlefields, and once (only once, for she never turned to him that way again, after) Isobel. 

They had slept eventually, after the storm of distress had spent itself, wound close together, and John had woken to James worshipping him (that was the only word that began to describe the care, the reverence, the _thoroughness_ with which James had touched him) with mouth and hands, brought him to a blinding climax. James had been gone when John awoke again. A letter had assured him he had done no wrong, and a second shortly after gave a direction John might send a letter to him, did he so wish. They had kept up a correspondence, but had not (yet) met again in person. John … missed him. It was complicated.

“I’ll not hurt you, either, not by will.” John didn’t entirely want to separate, withdraw, but he must. He took another uneven breath, a little deeper, trying to steady his elbow if nothing else. “Matthew, I must come out now, or there will be hurt regardless. Breathe. Breathe and let go.” 

There was a little pain, but nothing Matthew couldn’t easily ignore as a welcome trade for the — experience didn’t seen like an entirely adequate word, but it would have to suffice. What wasn’t as easy to ignore was the sudden hollowness inside of him, the feeling that something important was missing. To settle that ache, he reached for John, pulling him into his arms, bringing their mouths together. It was not quite enough to fill that emptiness, but it was a start, and something he relished for its own sake.

He didn’t know what to say.  His heart was brimming with words, but in addition to being unable to wring any coherence from them, he didn’t want to say anything that John would find unwelcome, that would make him think that Matthew had overstepped his bounds. He had no idea what John would make of the brightness in his heart, and he didn’t want to frighten him away by saying too much too soon. So instead he kissed him, because doing anything else was impossible, and hoped he didn’t give himself away.

John had not missed the tiny wince as he had pulled back as slowly and smoothly as he could manage, which was not quite as gently as he would have wished, but not as jerky as he had feared, either. He wound a corner of the sheet around his hand, promising an extra coin to the laundress with a tiny corner of his mind (the one also wondering if Garnett had left water with which they might wash). Most of him was still wrung and shivering. He welcomed Matthew’s arms, his kisses, even his silence. John had no words himself, none that made any sense, that could be said to one he knew both too well and too little. He tried to make his own arms, almost shyly circling Matthew’s waist, say what he could not with tongue and teeth, let his lip reply to Matthew’s with entreaty and gratitude, and closed his eyes, lest they betray all he both feared and hoped.

"Thank you," Matthew said softly, when he could trust his voice not to betray him by trembling or by breaking.  He couldn’t resist stroking John's hair, the soft blond strands like silk between his fingers. "That was incredible."  He still felt raw, almost new-made, emotions and nerves closer than usual to the surface, his heart more vulnerable.  As always, there was the impulse to hide those deeper feelings, to conceal them and protect himself from possible heartache, but after a long moment and a deep breath, Matthew decided against concealing himself. This thing between them, the feelings John has awoken in him, deserve better than to be hidden away from the person who caused them - and Matthew had also decided long ago that the chance of love was worth the risk of heartbreak.  This time, when he spoke, he didn’t try to hide anything.  Instead, he lay himself open, keeping nothing back.  If John retreated, it would hurt, badly, but it would be better than never giving himself the chance to see if maybe he wasn’t alone in his feelings

"I wasn't expecting that," he said, brushing a few strands of hair out of John's eyes.

 _How could you have?_ was the first thought that popped into John’s mind, but he immediately dismissed it as both irrelevant and unworthy. The light brush of Matthew’s fingers against his forehead was tender, and there was a note of warmth and what John could only interpret as wonder in his voice. There was, moreover, a positive lack of distress that eased a fear in John that he had not known possessed him until it was gone. “I … wasn’t either,” John said after a moment, feeling it to be an inadequate and pale response to Matthew’s openness and grace. 

John's voice was hard to read.  So, for that matter, was John himself. Matthew wasn’t sure whether or not John knew — or cared — about the effect he’d had.  Matthew certainly wasn’t about to ask.  He settled for curling into John, letting his fingers wander over the line of John's cheekbone, the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, the delicate shell of his ear — fleeting touches that Matthew couldn’t resist, that were having to serve as substitutes for the words to which he was not quite brave enough to give voice.

John felt a sudden pang, as though he had missed a cue, failed to read something obvious and crucial in Matthew’s words or voice. The trust and gentleness with which Matthew had tucked himself under and around John, and the gentle intimacy of the light touches were trying to say something, John was sure, but it was a language he did not know quite how to read, though oh, he wanted to. For the first time in many, many years John felt — young: inexperienced, ignorant, even at a loss. It wasn’t even that Matthew was that much older than he in absolute terms (Hugh had been even older, and John had never felt this kind of young with him, or with James who, what ever else he was, of certainty had rather more years in his dish than Hugh), but that it was utterly new to him, but not to Matthew. There was something terribly fragile and beautiful about this moment. The only thing that remotely came to mind (and how odd, for the circumstances could not be more different) was that one warm afternoon with Hector, some weeks before the battle. A kind of what if: if Hector had not died on that field, might John know more what this was, trust himself to be the recipient of such grace, such … love. (John could hardly think the word, it was so alien to his understanding of himself, of what people felt toward him - he loved people, he was not the object of such feeling.) 

John tightened his arms again around Matthew’s waist, conscious of the sheet tangled around his hand, the knot in his throat, the renewed prickle in his eyes. He had no idea how to convey what he was feeling, but somehow he had to. “Thank you,” he finally managed, more a whisper than anything else. “Matthew.” He had to stop there, not just because there were still no words, but because the next sound out of him threatened to be a sob, and really, Matthew did not deserve that.

Matthew cradled the side of John's face in his hand, pulling back just far enough to be able to see him, then leaning in to kiss him, unable to stop himself.  Ceirdwyn had warned him once that it was possible to fall like this for another Immortal, that this sort of love, when it came, was all-consuming.  As the centuries had rolled by without incident - of that sort, anyway - he'd assumed it nothing more than folklore.  Here in John's bed was the first time in years that he’d even remembered her words, so completely had he dismissed them.

"There's no need to thank me," he murmured, once he’d finished kissing John.  "I consider myself to have been given a gift beyond price."

John had no idea what to do with that statement, because Matthew was not talking about the physicality of what they had done, or not only that, but the intimacy, the trust, the attendant closeness and feeling, any more than John had been, in trying to make words too often mere politesse convey more meaning than they could hold. Matthew’s eyes held his, as soft and warm as his mother’s, as perceptive and accepting as James’s, and John could feel himself starting to tremble somewhere very deep inside; the same tremble that had possessed him as a child, when he had finally realized what he was, and that there was no hope for it but to both own it and hide it, but how could anyone not simply look at him and see the unnatural creature in their midst, pretending to be a dutiful and proper son? But no-one had noticed, not then, and rarely after. Not unless they were themselves of like stamp, and even then it was not the same.

“How can you look at me like that, as someone to be loved?” It wasn’t until he heard the crack in his voice that John realized he had said that aloud, whereupon he felt himself flush crimson even as his blood turned to ice in his veins. He wanted nothing more than to vanish, to flee, to curl into himself and disappear, but he made himself not look away, not move, not begin to babble who knew what; but there was nothing at all he could do about the fact that any moment now he would start shaking like a man fevered with the ague.

"How could I do otherwise?" Matthew asked, pierced to the quick by the question.  Keeping his voice gentle and his gaze calm was a struggle, but he managed, despite a sudden rush of deep, abiding anger at all of those who had helped to contribute to John's blindness concerning his own worth.  The only hint of that anger, though, was a trace of roughness in his own voice as he lifted John's hand to his lips.  He kissed the center of John's palm, the thin skin at the inside of his wrist, his knuckles and the back of his hand.  "If you find my emotions unwelcome, I will apologize, but only for the offense, not for the emotions themselves.  Rather, I intend to do everything in my power to persuade you to return them." He kept his gaze fixed on John's face as he spoke, holding his eyes with his own.

John felt his heart turn over with astonishment and release, and he shivered at the brush of Matthew’s lips against the inside of his wrist. That shiver threatened to continue and grow, but John ignored it long enough to say, low and clear and refusing to be frightened, “No apology needed, nor persuasion either.” Then he could only bury his face in the hollow of Matthew’s shoulder as the tiresome physical reaction would be held off no longer. There were times when he truly hated being what his tutors had disparagingly and his nurse (with a kind of cloying sympathy) had called ‘highly strung’, and this was one of them. Muffled and shaking he managed to make himself say the last: “They are returned.”

Matthew wrapped his arms around John, for his own comfort as much as for John's, temporarily overwhelmed by the strength of the emotion surging in his chest.  His own lashes were a little wet as he closed his eyes, as he pressed a kiss to the top of John's head.

"Ceirdwyn warned me that this could happen," he said after a few moments.  "She even offered to take steps to prevent it.  I'm glad I turned her down."  At the time, he hadn't believed her.  Now he simply wouldn't have wanted to miss this.  He thought maybe he finally understood how Robert felt the day he met Gina.

Matthew’s arms were a very welcome strength around his shoulders, and John allowed himself to relax into the unexpected and undemanding comfort. He had forgotten what a difference it made to have another person who cared to hold onto, for the waves of reaction crested and died away much more swiftly and easily than when he was alone with them. But then, the only other person he had allowed to see him like this was James. Presently he was able to take a deep breath and let it out unimpeded. One part of John wanted never to leave the circle of Matthew’s embrace; another wanted, fastidious and insistent, to wash the stiffening unguent from his hand, and the seed drying in streaks on both their bellies. He felt wrung and tender and almost a little raw, his skin aware of the movement of the air, the creases in the sheets. “I don’t think one chooses who one loves; I think one only chooses whether to express it, or act upon it.” John said after a little pause. “For well or ill, we both choose to act.”

"Remaining silent would have been harder than denying my own name," Matthew admitted.  "I am capable of many things, but not of walking away from this, not unless you send me, and even then I would try to change your mind."  John would also know how much importance a man of Matthew's age and background attached to his name, and understand also what it meant for him to have decided that this lightning-strike that's blossomed between them was at least, if not more, important.  "There are all too many aspects of Immortality that are anything but joyful. When it results in a gift of this magnitude, I'll not dismiss it."

“Nor I, whether it has anything to do with Immortality or not.” Reluctantly, John started to pull himself together, preparing to rise and get a damp cloth — next time he would remember to have something to hand, and the very thought of ‘next time,’ that it seemed almost sure there would be a next time — made his heart leap and chased away the last of the shivers. Feeling daring, John caressed the side of Matthew’s face as Matthew had John’s, and leaned in to kiss him before untangling his hand from the sheet and retrieving it from under Matthew’s side. “Let me get something to wash us with. I shall not be long.” 

"I'll be right here," Matthew said.  He rolled over so as to better watch John, then leaned back against the pillows, shaking his head in amazement.  The entire evening still had a hint of unreality about it. Everything had been so incredibly intense, so much _more_ than he'd ever expected, or even imagined.  He closed his eyes, smiling to himself in something that goes much deeper than satisfaction.

John laughed, suddenly extraordinarily happy, “Don't get up. Having banished my man for the evening, he would never forgive me for disarranging his arrangements.” Seeing Matthew settle back against the headboard, watching him was another pleasure, all too rare: to know that Matthew would still be there when he returned, and not already up and dressed and anxious to leave, a graceful, misleading speech designed for anyone who happened to be about the house ready on his lips, denying the truth of their bodies, the wishes of their hearts. Garnett had set the kettle near the coals in the dressing-room fireplace, towels ready to hand. The man knew him very well. John was grateful for his discretion, and made sure that Garnett knew he was appreciated. It was but a moment and John was back in the bedroom with the necessary items. “I’m afraid the water is not hot, but neither is it cold. Garnett takes very good care of me.”

"You're fortunate to have him then." Matthew smiled at John as he returned to the bed, and pulled him in for a kiss that started gently but ended with a bright thread of passion running through it.

"Hello again," he said, still smiling, and reached up to push a few strands of blond hair out of John's eyes.

“Give you good evening indeed,” John said, smiling back. His parts had warmed at the kiss, and he could tell that Matthew would be ready for another pass quite soon. It would be a little longer for himself, still somewhat shaken as he was, and John found he wanted more to talk, to know more of Matthew in this moment. He had washed his hands quickly while getting the water, now he set about washing Matthew, gently and somewhat deliberately, enjoying the intimacy and the opportunity to touch and explore while not distracted by arousal. Matthew was beautifully made. “I am blessed. Are you fortunate in your man? Or do you make do with a boy from the ranks? That’s how I found Garnett.”

John's touch made Matthew shiver, came close to sparking renewed hunger in his tired body.  “At the moment, I'm making do with what I'd swear is an imp of Satan."  Matthew laughed.  "He reminds me more than a little bit of Cory, actually, though he's less inclined to give away his profits." Reaching out, he took the cloth from John and started wiping him off gently, touches meant to soothe rather than arouse. "He attached himself to me during the Peninsula campaign after his parents were killed, and I haven't been able to persuade him to let me send him to school.  He swears he'll run away, and I believe him."  He shook his head ruefully.  "As it is, he's an unparalleled sneak thief and pickpocket, and has a mouth on him that would make a sergeant blush.  And he's a terrible servant, though he insists on trying."  Matthew shrugged.  "No matter.  I've looked after myself before."

When Matthew took the damp towel from his hand and nudged him back down on the bed, John went willingly. Matthew’s touch was sure and immensely comforting, sensuous without being provocative. “Oh, I know the like. And of course, an officer cannot go unattended: ‘t’would shame the Regiment!’ as one of my first sergeants would say.” John relaxed into the attention with an unconscious sigh compounded of both happiness and regret that things could not always be so comfortable and unconstrained. “I have found that with some — and yours would seem likely the type — one can inveigle them into learning their letters by giving them unsealed messages of interest to deliver. It piques their curiosity.” It was so easy to spread his legs for Matthew to reach the inner thigh, to tilt his hips and enjoy Matthew’s warm, sure hand lifting him to wash behind his stones. This was a rarer pleasure than sex. John sighed again, this time more like a purr than anything. “Oh, that feels so very good.”

Matthew planted a kiss on the crest of John's hipbone. "I'll get him to learn eventually. Cory fought me tooth and nail, but he's literate now."  He finished with the washcloth and set it aside, then leaned down to kiss the spot just above John's navel. "That is good advice; thank you."

Lying spread out like this, John was a picture that Matthew was glad he would always remember.  He was absolutely beautiful and entirely male, tempting enough that Matthew felt a rush of desire despite being so well-used and thoroughly worn out.

"Has anyone ever told you how absolutely incredible you are?" he asked, tracing patterns ever so lightly onto John's chest and stomach with his fingertips.

Unaccountably, John blushed, torn for a moment between the habit of deflection and distancing and the truth they were building between them. James had called him beautiful, and meant it, but somehow that wasn’t quite the same thing. Or was it? “Not and meant it,” he said quietly, “though James … may have tried.”

"Well, consider yourself told," Matthew said, unable to hold back a smile. He was entirely charmed by the sight of John blushing, and all the more so because it was so entirely unexpected. He propped himself up on one elbow so that he could look down at John, his free hand resting on John's chest, just over his heart. He could feel John's heartbeat under his palm, constant and steady.

Once again, John found himself at a loss for words. He could feel the color heating not just his face but breast and belly and even his thighs, the pale skin hiding nothing. It was not embarrassment, or even wholly self-consciousness; more the effect of being the focus of such an affectionate and … thorough … regard. Matthew’s hand was a welcome cool pressure, centering and sure. He did not feel exceptional, he felt … himself. More himself with Matthew than he had alone only this morning, enjoying the luxury of an excellent and private billet, pleasuring himself. That had been nice. This was something else again. John looked up at Matthew with a direct gaze, as open and unguarded as he knew how, hoping his eyes could convey what his tongue seemed reluctant to express. Finally he raised his own hand and matched Matthew’s gesture, fingers spread wide over Matthew’s heart, and then there were words, unexpected but heartfelt. “As are you. And I hope …” He took a breath, encouraged by the even beat of Matthew’s heart, the press of his hand, “we may continue to explore that in each other, past this night, do the winds of war and the caprice of Generals allow.”

"One thing you'll learn about me," Matthew told him, lifting his hand to cradle John's face and pull him gently in for a kiss, "is that I don't believe in letting anything, whether it be mortal caprice or divine whim, stand between me and those things which are most important to my life."  John's hair had again drawn his fingers.  "If circumstance prevents the Earl of Salisbury from remaining with you, I'll simply become someone who can, if you wish it. I've learned a thing or two from my disreputable student over the years."

John looked searchingly at Matthew. He did wish to be with Matthew, spend time unconstrained by orders or expectation with him. And of course it was possible to become someone new, to ‘die’ to this life and begin another elsewhere. He had already done it once, though the differences between old and new had been minimal. But they were currently both men under authority, with people looking to them for leadership and with a duty to uphold. Not accidentally John let his fingers brush the scar below Matthew’s collarbone as he brought his hand up to trace the line of Matthew’s brow and cheek. “Not until we have put paid to Bonaparte. Too many people depend upon us, and I will not walk away from that any more than I think you will, in this hour before the finish. But after, yes.”

"No — until Bonaparte has been dealt with, my oaths and my honor bind me as tightly as do yours," Matthew agreed.  He smiled warmly at John, kissing the inside of his wrist.  "But yes, afterwards — afterwards, I am entirely at your disposal."  He felt almost giddy, making that offer, but he meant it.  He would willingly throw aside the life waiting for his return to America, his plans for the life after that one, do whatever was required in order to follow where his heart was so very insistently trying to lead him.  "Until then, we shall simply have to steal what time we can."

“I think,” John said slowly, “ that when this crisis is wrapped up, we should both decide whither we go and who we will be, not either of us choosing for the other. I fear if you let me, I _will_ come the lord, and I … would have us equals.” He turned his hand until he could lace his fingers with Matthew’s, and pulled him back down to the pillows, reaching for the bedclothes rucked at the foot of the mattress and tugging them up, warm against the cooling air. The candles he had not blown out coming back with the water and towel were getting low, would gutter out presently, leaving them with only the gentle glow of the coals and the stray moonbeam that fell through the gap in the curtains. “And I shall be delighted to thieve opportunity for us betimes.”

"I promise you, I'll not let you lord it over me,"  Matthew assured him, "even if I do leave our post-war dispositions in your hands. Nevertheless, if you wish us to decide together, I'll gladly agree." He pulled John gently down into the circle of his arms, enchanted all over again by the way John felt pressed against him.  "What is your opinion on the Bahamas?" he asked, half in jest.  "We could hide from the world for a year or two — or a decade or two."

An involuntary shiver made John’s shoulders twitch, but he refused to let the reaction go any further. Instead he curled more closely into Matthew’s arms and said simply, “Too close to Jamaica, I suspicion; I was governor there not long enough ago.” He let his thumb trace patterns in Matthew’s palm. “But the idea of being out of the common way certainly has appeal. Perhaps a Pacific isle instead?”

"It's certainly a tempting idea," Matthew admitted, them paused as an escaping yawn temporarily prevented speech.  "I fear, however, that neither of our natures is the sort to easily lend itself to lengthy periods of indolence.  A month or so of idleness, though, sounds like an excellent idea."  He let his eyes drift closed, one hand idly stroking John's blond hair.  "I don't count the trip, of course. There's nothing restful about an ocean voyage."  Matthew didn't dread them, but neither did he find them enjoyable.  The distance he would have to swim to reach the shore always lingered in the back of his mind.

John had his own memories of long voyages, both good and unpleasant, and he had enjoyed being able to make a small difference as Governor, if only to maintain the structures of orderly commerce and travel, letting the pirates and privateers know they were observed. Matthew was entirely correct in saying they would neither of them be happy if long idle. On the other hand, a month or two in tropical isolation sounded very pleasant indeed. “We shall hire a fast and well-crewed vessel, then, that answers to none but ourselves.” John murmured after a moment, feeling drowsiness steal over him. Matthew’s breath was slow and deep, ruffling his hair, and his arms were a warm weight, comfortable and safe. He let his eyes close, listening to the soft thump of Matthew’s heart where his cheek rested. 

"That sounds like an excellent plan," Matthew said, his voice sounding distant and drowsy in his own ears.  "We'll sail away and hide from the world on a beach somewhere, with no one about but ourselves, at least for a few weeks."  For that little time at least, they wouldn't have to worry about betraying themselves or hiding.

John heard only the agreement in Matthew’s slow words and low voice as he slipped down into sleep.

* * *

Matthew wasn't aware of falling asleep; just of waking up, with the fire gone to embers and his own sense of time telling him that it was an hour or so past midnight.  He was lying on his stomach with one arm wrapped around John's waist, and though at first he intended to simply go back to sleep, he couldn't resist looking at the way the last traces of firelight outlined John's face, or the temptation to brush a few strands of hair off of his forehead.  He ran his fingers lightly over John's chest, still slightly amazed by the strength of the feelings - both physical and emotional - that John roused in him.

John was dreaming: a distant music surrounded him, an encompassing warm susurration. There were hands touching him, kind and careful, the very opposite of the surgeon’s urgent violence, the soldier's heedless force, George's selfishness, and a bulwark of strength warded his back, his side, held him in knowing, loving, erotic and welcome embrace. He made a quiet, sleepy noise, hardly more than a breath, that the dream not alter, that he not awaken to cold and dutiful solitude. 

The sleepy, pleased noise that escaped John's throat and the shift of his body against Matthew's was all it took to make Matthew's breath catch in his throat, his body beginning to hum with desire.  He leaned down to lay a trail of kisses along John's chest, pausing to tease first one nipple and then the other into hardness with lips and tongue and a hint of teeth before moving on to kiss the exposed curve of John's throat.  He slid a hand down the muscles of John's stomach to his cock, which was already swelling into hardness, enjoying the steel and silk feel of it in his hand.

Oh god, reality, not dream, no phantom-lover but Matthew, hot mouth first suckling his nipples to bright points of desire and then caressing the sensitive column of his throat. Matthew cupping John’s burgeoning sex in a calloused, clever, eager hand while Matthew’s own stiffening length nudged and rubbed insistent in the valley of John’s nether-cheeks. Another sound escaped him, all need-want-yes-Matthew-yes-what-a-glorious-thing-to-wake-to. He arched into Matthew’s hand, pressed back against his cock, wanting it hard between his legs, sliding hot over his arsehole, burning like a glede. God, _yes_.

A choked gasp escaped Matthew's lips as John pressed back against him. The simple movement was one of the most erotic things in his experience: both wanton and innocent, erotic and charming all at once. He found himself thrusting forward, his cock against John's arse.  The sensation wrung another gasp out of him, and he pulled John closer, bit a little harder than gently at the side of his throat.

"Do you know how incredible you are?" he breathed into John's ear.

Matthew’s teeth blunt and present on the cords of John’s neck sent ribbons of fire along his nerves, jolting through him, bringing him more fully awake, more fully aroused. John rocked again, moving one leg over Matthew’s, and Matthew’s delightfully hard length slid between his cheeks, just where he wanted it. “Yes,” he moaned, hardly hearing the words Matthew had said, responding to heat and friction and marvelous, responsive strength. “There, yes, like that, oh god, Matthew.” 

The sound of his own name tumbling helplessly from John's lips took Matthew's breath away.  He lay a fervent trail of kisses along John's throat, alternating lips with teeth, from the sensitive spot just below his ear to the curve where it meets his shoulder.  John's cock was hot and heavy in his hand, and Matthew pressed against him, held him close.

"I want you," he said, feeling more than a little daring.  He'd never had a man before, wasn't sure John will agree, but it was an intimacy he wanted.  He wanted John every way and any way he could get him.

John stilled inside for a moment, hearing Matthew’s request in a way he hadn’t the previous exclamation. A little to his own surprise, John’s body did not stop its happy movement in Matthew’s arms: cheeks squeezing the hard length that rubbed between them, hips angling for more of Matthew’s hand on his unflagging erection, neck arching and breath stuttering under Matthew’s attentions. It wasn’t that John did not trust Matthew to have a care — even though their acquaintance was still very new, that was not an issue — but he was fairly sure that Matthew’s only experience with the act (between men at any rate) was what they had done earlier that night. There was likely enough of the unguent left in the jar for practical purposes, and certainly for a man whose previous congress had been with women it was a natural desire. It was even unexpectedly warming that Matthew did specifically desire him — John — that way. 

But John wanted precisely what they were doing; this, spooned, rubbing, moving together close and snug and warm and no possibility of pain to mar or distract either of them. He almost wished Matthew had not asked, because now John was thinking about it. Though the very fact that he _had_ asked was to the side of good; it implied a ‘no’ would be heard, understood, did he not say yes. (George had always assumed, and John had been too dazzled, too unhappy and unreguarding of himself to say no, or understood then that he could, or should say no. James had never assumed, but they had talked entirely throughout, as much a lesson as anything, affectionate and full of care, and John had learned he could find deep enjoyment and pleasure in receiving, that not even discomfort was a requirement, much less pain. Percy had not known, and John had not wanted him to know, how difficult John found it, howsoever willing he was. John had not expected, when speaking of consent earlier this evening, that it would be he, not Matthew, to be the one requiring to wrestle with the issue. 

Matthew was still holding him tight, murmuring happy noises in John’s ear, giving him space and time to answer. He understood what Matthew wanted, certainly understood why he would/could want it. John knew he could give Matthew that, enjoying Matthew’s pleasure, finding not inconsiderable enjoyment in the sensation, but John wanted to _want_ it, be an active partner in the pleasure of it, not merely accepting of it, and … he wasn’t there, not at the moment, not yet. John very much wanted to continue with the truth of what they were building between them; it mattered that they had that. Perhaps the answer was neither no nor yes but a third possibility: not yet. A foreseeable, even anticipated, _soon_ , but not _now_.

As if the idea alone were freeing, John felt himself aware of every particle of himself, breath stuttering in his lungs, Matthew’s lips hot at the hollow of his throat, buttocks clenching and releasing, arsehole pulsing with each movement of Matthew’s eager prick across it. His own cock was weeping in Matthew’s hand, a rod of insistent fire, and his balls were tight, so close to release. John closed his eyes, head thrown back, throat arched against Matthew’s shoulder, and fought for breath to speak. “Yes,” he said on a gasp, a promise to them both, “but not … just yet. I need .…” The tightening of Matthew’s hand on his cock pulled a cry from him, and he could feel the beginning of his climax gathered like lightning ready to strike, “… time.”

They were immortal: they had time. One more convulsive movement in Matthew’s arms, a last stroke of his hand, and release tore through John, whiting out all thought, leaving only sensation.

‘Later’ was not ‘no,’ carrying with it a future in a way that made solid their earlier conversation, and certainly this intimate friction was taking John apart, carrying Matthew with him. John was shuddering against him, his release spilling hot over his stomach, over Matthew's hand, and the feel of him swept Matthew clean of everything but sensation, left him gasping with the intensity of it.  The only sound in the world was their ragged breathing, the only thing he could see the look on John's face, and the only thing that mattered was the heat and sweet desire between them. More than gift enough.

Matthew was holding him, strong arms keeping him from flying utterly apart, as they moved together. John could feel Matthew’s climax coming swift on his own, and the hot pulses of Matthew’s seed anointing John’s balls were enough to wring another spasm of ecstasy from him. John cried out as Matthew jerked and trembled, both of them gripping tight, holding hard as their bodies came undone together.

Presently, John could breathe easily again, and he eased his grip on Matthew’s thigh, shifted his hand to cover Matthew’s as he rocked a little in the loosened circle of Matthew’s fingers, still tingling at the memory of tightness. Matthew’s softening length was slick and wet between his cheeks and the air was sharp with the scent of life, of sweat and seed and skin. He wanted never to move, to hold this moment, to stay twined so close together and not let go.

Matthew took a ragged breath, his arms tightening briefly around John. He kissed the nape of John’s neck, lifted a hand to touch John’s face, still overwhelmed by the rarity and preciousness of the gift he had been given. Of the delight in being able to touch, to have, something he wanted so very badly. John would not fade away and die like the mortals Matthew had loved; they would have all the time in the world. Matthew kissed John’s neck again, his own eyes sliding shut. He could feel the warmth of sleep tugging at his mind, and let himself fall into it; warm and safe and loved.

John was not at all sleepy, but had no inclination to move, either, held secure in Matthew's arms. This was a luxury to be enjoyed, cherished, remembered. They would make a future for themselves, and if that made the execution of their duties as men of war, of position and authority important, they would be equally beholden to making peace, a good and prosperous peace. A future not just for themselves, but for everyone they loved, would love, had loved. The world Jamie and Claire had worked for. The world James hoped for but did not always trust. A world Hugh would greet with glee, Robert with a smile. A world with as much of love and hope as might be dreamed. For now, he would enjoy the moment. The morning was soon enough to begin the work.


End file.
